


Side Quest

by Kittles123



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-19
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-02-04 08:22:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 37
Words: 93,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12766941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kittles123/pseuds/Kittles123
Summary: Jaime Lannister has defected from the Crown and left his sister in order to fulfill his pledge to join the war against the undead.  But the journey will not be as simple as it sounds.  Jaime finds that the road north is paved with choices - and he will not be traveling alone.  This story picks up right where season 7 left off.





	1. Cobbler's Square

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much to my beta reader Ill_Tempered_Clavier, you have been so helpful!
> 
> This will be a story about Jaime Lannister and Brienne of Tarth, and I might include some Tyrion for good measure :D I'll update the character tags as the story progresses.
> 
> Thank you very much for taking the time to read; I appreciate any feedback, and I hope you enjoy this story!

**Cobbler’s Square**

 

“Come on Pod.  What say you and me go have a drink while the fancy folks talk, eh?”

Bronn raised his brows but managed to suppress an actual eye roll as Pod turned to Lady Brienne to ask her permission.  He looked like a boy begging his mother to go out and play.  She would let him go, if she knew what was best.  And she nodded her approval.  Pod nodded back solemnly then fell into step next to Bronn.  The lad’s shoulders appeared broader and his chest and arms more filled out than the last time Bronn had seen him, but he still looked as gullible as ever.

“I’m not sure I should be leaving Lady Brienne.”  Pod glanced back over his shoulder at the conglomeration of entitled assholes amassed behind them.  “Why can’t we stay?”

Bronn waited until they were clear of the last line of Lannister guards that surrounded the Dragonpit before answering.  “They’re all fucking crazy, Pod.  You want to hang out with a bunch of crazy folk armed to the teeth with steel and dragons?”  Bronn clapped his arm around the boy’s shoulders and led them down the Street of the Sisters.  “Throw in an undead monster or two and you’ve got yourself a real fucking scene.  No, you want to be with me.”

“I guess you’re right,” Pod said sullenly.

“Not to worry.  Your lady knight can take care of herself.”  They strolled down the dusty road as Visenya’s Hill began to rise over the rooftops in the distance.  A black marble building loomed ahead and Pod covered his nose.

“It smells like the Blackwater,” Pod said, referring to the battle, and pulled his shirt up over his nose.  “I’ll never forget that smell.”

“Aye, that’s the Guild of the Alchemists - they’ve been working night and day, I hear, making wildfire for Queen Cersei.  Now what do you suppose she is going to do with it?”

Then the ruins of the Sept of Baelor appeared on the horizon.  Smoke still rose in wisps from the charred piles of soot-stained stone.  When the wind was right, the stench of the fire covered the whole city and even pressed out into the bay so that the first thing ships arriving to port would smell was the aroma of fire and death.

“Is it true, Ser Bronn?  Did the Queen really blow up the Sept?”

“Well now, only a completely deranged person would kill hundreds of innocents like that.”

Pod gave him a confused look as Bronn veered right which brought them into Cobbler’s Square.  Crafter’s storefronts lined the rectangular thoroughfare.  The farriers were especially busy, and the square stank of horse shit.  Dozens of destriers rippling with muscle waited impatiently for their turn to be shoed.  Enormous hooves pawed at the ground and flanks quivered.  After their run-in with the dragon, the remaining Lannister army was in desperate need of rehabilitation.  He thought about the poor beast he’d ridden right into the path of the dragon’s flame and hoped it had been a quick death.  At such a close range, both he and Jaime’s horses were probably turned to ash damn near instantly.

“Alright, drinks are on me.” Bronn grinned and turned into the first tavern he found.  He needed to get a drink into Pod to loosen him up.  The boy was being even more quiet than usual.  Bronn could not tell if it was nerves or if perhaps he’d grown up a bit and did not share his thoughts so freely anymore.  The boy had matured, Bronn could tell that much, but how good was the lad in a fight?

Bronn and Pod slid onto three-legged wooden stools at the bar and he waved the tender down.  It was cool in the tavern, sheltered from the sun, and a northerly breeze blew through the square. “A Riverland wheat for me and the boy,” Bronn said and laid a coin on the nicked up bartop.  The tender opened a growler and poured the cloudy, amber-hued beer into a pair of pint glasses and placed the drinks in front of them. 

“So, do you want to talk or do you want to get piss drunk and forget it all for the night?” Bronn asked as he took his first sip.  Gods, it was good.  And soon it would be gone along with everything else when winter came.

Pod looked at him and raised his glass, then smiled, his expressive eyes lighting up beneath his brows.

“Aye, let’s get drunk,” Bronn said and tipped back his glass.

 

But drinking lead to a lot of talking, as it often does, and after a few hours Pod was regaling Bronn with tales of Winterfell.

“One of them has taken a liking to m’lady,” Pod added after telling Bronn about the wildlings.

“Has he now?” Bronn asked, his interest perked.  This was good stuff.

“Yes, though m’lady doesn’t return his err… affections.”

“Has she returned  _ any _ man’s affections?” Bronn asked.

“No… I mean, I don’t think so.  It’s not really my business.”

“Any women?”

“No, but…”

“I know, I know.  None of your bloody business.”

“How is Ser Jaime?”

Bronn barked out a laugh.  “Still blinded by his sister’s cunt.  And now she’s got a whelp in her belly, thanks to him.  You’d think he would have learned by now,” Bronn said and shook his head.

“Oh,” Pod replied and seemed to sober up a bit.  “That’s, uh… nice?  To have a baby and all.”

“What?  No it’s not, it’s fucking stupid.  She doesn’t give two shits about Jaime.  You know what she said to him when we got back from fighting a horde of Dothraki and a fucking dragon?”

“You fought a dragon?”

“Aye, I did.  Hit it with a scorpion bolt, too.  That’s actually another good reason for me not to be in that Dragonpit.  But anyway, back to Cersei.  She did not care.  Wouldn’t listen to a word Jaime said to her and blamed him for it all.  The man charged a dragon for her, and she only asked for more of him.”  Spittle flew from his lips and he wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve.

“Ser Jaime  _ charged _ a dragon?” Pod asked, his face lighting up even more, like he was hearing a tale of some hero.

“Yeah, but I saved his ass.  He would have been a pile of ash if it weren’t for me.”

Pod just shook his head and drank deep, then continued.  “That might be the bravest thing I’ve ever heard,” Pod babbled.  “It’s like something out of a song.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Bronn scoffed.  Though he should have been used to it by now.  Every soldier in the Lannister army he’d ever come across worshipped Jaime Lannister.  Even some of the Tully forces they had conscribed to fight for them liked him.  He was a true commander, Bronn had to give him that.  And stupid brave, the fucking idiot.  Even Bronn himself felt a strange draw to him.  He wanted to stay at his side, keep him grounded, fight and die with him.   _ Fuck, I’m drunk. _

“Come on, Pod.  I need to stretch my legs.  How about a stroll down the Street of Silk?  I’ve heard the whores miss you.”

Just as his boots were about to hit the floor, the door of the tavern swung open a a group of City Watch soldiers filed in, clomping their boots obnoxiously on the floor.  One of them pointed across the crowded room at Bronn.  It had taken a little longer than he had expected for this to happen.  He knew Cersei had run out of patience with him after he’d arranged Jaime’s meeting with Tyrion.

“Get ready, Pod,” Bronn murmured then stood up with his hands out in a pleasant gesture.  “Hello boys.  Bunch of fine looking soldiers, you lot.  Come to bump elbows with your old Lord Commander?”

“Ser Bronn of the Blackwater, you are under arrest for treason,” the leader said and they all drew their swords.  There were five of them.  Bronn was slightly offended that they hadn’t sent more.   _ More fool them, then. _

“Alright Pod, let’s see what your lady’s taught you,” Bronn breathed then unsheathed his sword.  He saw a few of the Gold Cloaks’ eyes grow wide, then their leader came at him.  Bronn was nearly seeing double, but as soon as steel clashed against steel, his adrenaline sobered him up.

After a few quick parries, he ran the leader through with his right hand and slashed the throat of another with the dagger he kept at his back with his left.  He turned to face his next opponent but saw there were none left to dispatch with.  Pod had handled them and was already sheathing his sword.

“Don’t get too cocky, now.  We still have to get out of here.”

“What’s going on, Ser?  I thought you served Ser Jaime?” Pod asked as they stepped over bloodied bodies on their way to the door.  The patrons and owner gave them a wide berth.  No one wanted any part of what had just happened, and some were already slipping out the door, making themselves scarce.

“I do, but I’ve also got a soft spot for the little brother.  The Queen doesn’t like that too much,” Bronn said back over his shoulder at Pod who was walking behind him.  He was just crossing the threshold when the sunlight streaming in the tavern door went dark and a hulking giant of a man blocked the way out.  The smell of Robert Strong hit Bronn like a tidal wave of pestilence and he stumbled back away from him, but not quickly enough.

Before he could say a word, Robert Strong’s hand grasped his neck and threw him up against the wall.  Bronn felt his own limbs thrashing around wildly of their own volition as his windpipe collapsed beneath the undead Mountain’s palm.  There was no time to think as he began to see stars swim before his eyes and his face felt bloated with blood as if he was hanging upside down.  He made an attempt to reach for the dagger at his back, but the room was going dark and the hand continued to squeeze.  It was worse than the dragon bearing down on him at the Blackwater Rush, worse than beyond the Wall, worse even than his childhood in Flea Bottom.  He was going to die.

Then he saw the glint of steel in the remnants of his sight and he suddenly fell to the floor.  He still couldn’t breath.  It was like someone had a pillow over his face and he was suffocating.  Then he heard Pod’s voice.

“Breathe, Ser Bronn.”  He said it in a wavering voice, like a desperate prayer, as he hauled Bronn to his feet.  Finally Bronn felt his airway begin to open back up and he took some strangled, whistling breaths.  Air had never tasted so good.  He saw Robert Strong swing his arm at him again, but it was nothing but a stump.  His forearm and hand lay on the floor.  Pod had cut it clean off.  Black blood oozed from the end of it and the monster seemed confused at the loss of his hand.

“Out the Gate of the Gods,” Bronn whispered with what little voice he had.

Pod threw Bronn’s arm over his shoulder and led him through Cobbler’s Square and out the gate.  The faces of the gods carven into the stone seemed to follow them as they passed beneath.  Bronn gave a faint tip of his head to the Stranger whose stoney eyes seemed to bore into his soul.   _ That was the closest you’ve come to getting me, I’ll give you that.   _ Bronn chanced one look back into the square and saw Robert Strong lope out of the tavern carrying his own hand.  He almost looked sad, as if he were a child that had just lost his favorite toy.  He trudged purposefully out of the square and back towards the Red Keep, returning to his creator no doubt.

A pair of horses stood tied in a thicket just outside the gate.  Bronn gestured to them and Pod took him there.  He could manage some deep breaths now, and he clapped Pod on the back.

“Fuck me, Pod.  That was nearly the end right there.”

“Your eyes… they’re bleeding, Ser.”  Pod’s voice wavered quietly.

“It’ll go away in time,” Bronn said.  He knew what he must look like.  He’d seen men choked to death.  The blood vessels in their eyes and face popped and he would surely be wearing some dark bruises on his neck before long.

Pod looked pale and there was a sheen of sweat on his upper lip and forehead.  The lad looked like he was in shock.  Bronn decided to wait until they were on the road and well away from the city to explain that Tyrion had known that things could go wrong very quickly in the Dragonpit, and that the horses were compliments of him for their escape if it became necessary.

“Glad you were with me, Pod,” Bronn said then climbed onto one of the horses’ backs.  “Now let's get the fuck out of here.”


	2. The Kingsroad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime hits the road.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of Jaime thoughts and build-up this chapter, but the action will start soon, I promise!! Thanks again to my beta Ill Tempered Clavier.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading and I hope you enjoy!

**The Kingsroad**

 

Snow.  In King’s Landing.  There was no mistaking it, Jaime thought as he watched the tiny crystalline structure melt into his leather glove.  He’d been barely a man during the last winter.  He’d said his Kingsguard vows on the tourney grounds at Harrenhal in the Year of the False Spring.  Jaime’s mind wandered as his dark horse broke into a comfortable canter, following the Kingsroad with little guidance.  This winter would be different than all the others, however, if what he saw in the pit was any indication.  This would rival the Long Night.

“Gods, Tyrion.  What do you make of all this?”  Jaime wondered to himself.  His brother was as pragmatic and scholarly as they came.  When Jaime, the older brother, would cower in his bedclothes after being told a particularly frightening tale by an old wet nurse at the Rock, Tyrion remained ever the skeptic.  Where were the bones of these monsters now if they had once truly existed, Tyrion would ask.  The skulls of dragons lined the walls of the throne room in King’s Landing.  Surely there should be some scrap of fossil left by these alleged monsters of the old North.  Then Tyrion would pretend to be a giant from beyond the Wall.  He’d loom in the candlelight which would cast a huge shadow across the floorboards of the bedroom, snarling and cackling and Jaime would always break into fits of laugher.

“But Tyrion believes all of this.”  That, of anything, was most telling.  His skeptical, pragmatic little brother believed it.  Jaime had been convinced the moment the undead creature sprang from its box.  His warrior’s mind had registered the chain around its neck, had seen the Hound’s grip on its leash, had recognized that it was not a true threat.  But even still, he’d felt his body freeze in absolute shock.  Not even Robert Strong had moved to defend Cersei.  Or the baby in her belly.   _ Fuck.   _ His sister, his other half, his family name.

He would take the black, there was no other option.  He would dedicate the rest of his life to defending the realms of men in penance for his sins.  He would fight and die against the army of the dead, and without a great deal of luck, he’d die rather quickly too.  He didn’t have Bronn or Brienne or even poor Dickon Tarly to watch his back now. He was all alone. 

But he could still feel her touch on his arm, if he concentrated.  It was hot and fiery and real.  She’d been angry with him, and hurt no doubt.  After their talk at Riverrun, where he’d nearly stopped her from leaving, how else could she feel?  Even now, he could feel her long, capable fingers wrap around his upper arm and pull him to her.  Heat rose up his neck and to his cheeks and he looked around absurdly, afraid someone would see, but he was still alone. The snow had begun to fall convincingly, and a blanket of white covered the grass on the sides of the road.  He furrowed his brow in an attempt to dismiss the thought, but his heart would not give in so easily, so he indulged it for a moment.   _ Brienne, where are you? _  Perhaps he would happen upon her at an inn.  She’d taken the last room, so there would be no choice but to share.  She’d let him lay next to her but her armor would be up still, watchful and wary.  He’d profess his love, pull her to him as she sighed in his arms.  Lips and skin would meet, bodies would join.   _ Bloody hells,  _ he thought as he took a deep breath and squirmed in the saddle.  It was like some dam in his soul had broken and turned him back into an infatuated boy.  His felt a very real ache between his legs, and as his eyes came into focus he realized that he was much further down the Kingsroad than the last time he’d took note.  If he kept this up, he’d be killed by bandits before he got anywhere.

_ “And where the fuck do you think you’re going?” _

Bronn’s voice was so crisp and real in his mind that he nearly turned around to see if he was truly there, then stopped himself and actually considered the question.  Where Tyrion had scholarly knowledge, Bronn had street smarts.  And it was a fair question.  What the hells was he planning on doing?  What good would a aging knight that was short a swordhand do in the war against the dead?   _ But I swore I’d ride north.   _ With an army.  That was key.  He may have a decent military mind, but what the North needed was soldiers.   _ So where the bloody hells am I going? _

The sun cast a warm pink glow on the western horizon.  The overcast sky had cleared just enough to see the last glimpse of the red sun as it set.  He took his bearings and found that he was an hour’s ride from Brindlewood.  There would be an inn there, and a soft bed and warm food.  But also the eyes and ears of the crown.  Jaime turned off at the next side road and eventually found an alcove in the slope of a hill that would shelter him from the wind.  The remnants of a fire lay in a pit near a flattened bed of leaves, and the black horse snorted her approval. He forewent the fire but laid out his bedroll in the pile of leaves and imagined he was lying in the same spot that he had years ago on his way from Riverrun to King’s Landing.  Brienne was near.  She’d had a cold at the time, and he could almost hear her snuffling in her sleep just next to him.  He imagined he could feel the heat of her body beside him and her strong arm slip around his waist.  It was foolish but it made him feel better, so as he fell asleep, he allowed himself to indulge in the idea that Brienne was with him, that she had been with him this whole time, and that they would never part again.

 

The next morning he woke to a much less pleasant reality.  His hips ached and the shoulder he’d slept on was numb and protested to move when he stood.  Frost covered the grass and clung to his stubbled face, and his stomach grumbled.  Even the sun struggled to rise, it’s warm rays only peeking through the overcast sky for a moment and vanishing just as fast.  His horse appeared only mildly perturbed as she rooted for grubs at the base of a tree and swished her long black tail back and forth.

He took a piss then grabbed a wedge of bread from his saddlebag and ate it dry as he weighed his next move.  Get on the horse, obviously.  But then what?

“Come on, girl,” he said as he untied the horse’s reins from a branch.  He climbed up and adjusted his golden hand.  He wanted to rip the damned thing off but that more than anything else would give him away.  Not many knew what the former Lion of Lannister looked like, especially in a sellsword’s garb, but the entire realm knew he’d lost his sword hand.

He trotted his horse back out to the Kingsroad and turned north.  The crisp air and the blessed silence of the road improved his mood some, and he took a hunk of cheese out and ate that too then washed it down with a flask of watered wine.  Although his aging body protested it, he always knew he was meant for the field and not the stuffy courts of King’s Landing.  Military strategy made sense in his mind.  He could turn a battlefield around in his head, manipulate the troops and archers and trebuchets, play out the battle over and over until he achieved the desired result.  The subtlety and backstabbing of the Red Keep was lost on him.

Cersei, Tyrion, and even his own lord father had seemed to have a knack for it.  Perhaps that was where he fell short.   _ I always knew you were the stupidest Lannister.   _ The words penetrated his thoughts with no warning, like a Valyrian dagger to the back, slipped between his ribs, the blade so fine it would not even be felt at first.  Even at a young age, he’d been a phenom in the practice yard, but that was not all Lord Tywin had expected of his heir.  The knights of Casterly Rock would laud praise on Jaime and tell Lord Tywin what a talented son he had.  But Tywin’s eye focused on only one thing - Jaime’s difficulty in reading and writing.  He would need to learn to read and write fluently if he was ever to be Lord of the Rock - that was what his father had said.  After many late nights with a tutor and lots of tears and frustration, he’d developed a serviceable grasp on it, though he was never as fast as Tyrion or as neat as Cersei.

And now here he was, a one-handed commander with no army heading north to fight an army of the dead.  He could picture Cersei laughing at him with that nasty little smirk on her face.  Poor, stupid Jaime.  He ground his teeth and let out a hot breath that crystallized into a foggy puff in the crisp air.   _ Gods, what am I doing? _

His horse whickered and pawed the ground as if trying to get his attention.  He realized he’d been paying little heed to his surroundings and they were just coming into Brindlewood.  He had barely reached the outskirts of town, but the sides of the road were lined with tents.  What was this?  Gaunt faces peeked out, the sunken eyes of women with ratty hair and worn furs draped over their shoulders.  His horse snorted as a group of children ran across the road, frolicing and laughing.  One stopped for a moment to let out a rattling cough, then continued after his friends.  Their shoes were worn and their faces were chapped and dirty.  Then it dawned on him.  These were smallfolk fleeing the winter.

“Where do you hail from?” Jaime called out to an old, stout woman stirring a kettle over a fire.  She was not fearful of him like the young women were.

“The Riverlands.  And you?  You’re going the wrong way!” she said and cackled.  “Winter is here.”

The Riverlands.  The decimated, war torn Riverlands.  Their fields had been burned and stores pillaged by his own army.   _ And how many of these brats underfoot are bastard babes of my own soldiers? _  These people had no chance, and it was because of him, because of the Lannisters.   _ She’s a disease, and I regret my role in spreading it.  You will too. _

Then more words that had been spoken to him came to mind, but this time they thundered in like a horde of Dothraki and slammed into him like a warhammer to the chest.   _ Fuck loyalty… This goes beyond houses and honor and oaths. _

Jaime set his jaw and urged his black horse onward.  He knew what he had to do.  He would go north until he crested the northern shore of the God’s Eye, then leave the Kingsroad and veer west into the Riverlands.  There was someone at Riverrun he needed to speak with.


	3. Harrenhal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harlan Swyft, commander of the Lannister forces at Harrenhal, receives a disturbing raven from King's Landing and he is forced to act.

**Harrenhal**

 

Ser Harlan Swyft sat in the Commander’s tent outside the looming walls of Harrenhal, studying a map of the God’s Eye and pushing tokens around the landscape.  Each token signified a contingent of troops of the Lannister forces garrisoned at Harrenhal.  There were Tully men, Reachmen and Lannister men under his command, and he was charged with keeping the peace in the Riverlands.  Easy enough to keep the peace when the area had already been pillaged dry. The smallfolk were starving and many were already fleeing to try their luck in the South.  There would be no food there either, soon enough, thanks to the conflagration of dragon fire at the Blackwater Rush that had burned most of the Reach’s grain.

Harlan spread his hand across the leathery surface of the map, pushing it flat as his eyes moved further west, beyond the circle of the God’s Eye and across the Trident.  Raventree Hall, Stone Hedge and Riverrun were all manned and supplied.  Harlan’s biggest problem lay to the north.  Whatever had happened at the Twins had left a power vacuum in its wake, and the information trickling down the Trident turned his stomach.  Mass murder, ghosts, blood magic - and now a castle full of defenseless women and children had been taken over by a band of outlaws.  If it weren’t such a strategic castle, he could almost force himself to forget about it, but he had daughters of his own safely tucked away at Cornfield, and the thought of them suffering at the hands of outlaws sent his blood boiling.  A voice interrupted his thoughts.

“I still think we should move into the castle,” Ser Raleigh grumbled as he entered the tent, brushing snow from his hair.  “But you’d rather freeze than face the ghost of Harrenhal.  I never took you for such a fool as to believe some old wet nurse’s tale.”  Raleigh was second-in-command and haled from the Reach, and he was not hearty enough for these cold temperatures.

“The body count doesn’t lie, Raleigh.”  Harrenhal had a poor history, and recent events hadn’t done much to bolster its reputation.  Time after time, the men who manned the castle had met untimely ends, and if rumor was true, even Petyr Baelish was not slippery enough to avoid the curse.  No, Harlan would stay in his tent as far away from the charred walls of the keep as possible.

“Any news from the scouts on our man?” Harlan asked as he furrowed his brow and traced his finger up the Kingsroad.

“Not since yesterday.  He was still moving north at that time.”

Harlan nodded then looked up at the sound of boots crunching in the snow outside.

A Tully man appeared at his tent flap.  Icy, white flakes clung to his black hair and he wore the fish of his liege lord on his breast, but Harlan did not mind.  There were immensely bigger problems than that now, and Edmure Tully was still a Lannister prisoner in the dungeons of Riverrun which ensured the Tully men’s loyalty.

“What is it?” Harlan asked.

“A raven, Ser.”  The man stuck out his gloved hand abruptly.  “From King’s Landing.”

_ Gods, what now? _  He broke the official wax seal, unrolled the parchment and spread it flat on his desk.

 

_ Ser Jaime Lannister has fled the capitol and is a traitor to the Crown.  He is accused of conspiring to overthrow the Queen with Tyrion Lannister and would let the Dragon pillage the resources of the South to feed her foreign armies.  Because of this betrayal, the Queen can no longer send her armies north, and instead must defend her people here.  Ser Jaime must be captured and brought to justice. _

 

Harlan frowned then handed the scroll to his second-in-command.  Things were beginning to make sense, though he misliked it.  When a scout had first reported that he had spotted Ser Jaime Lannister alone on the Kingsroad heading north, Harlan had been skeptical to say the least, but the scout had been adamant.  The lad had fought for Ser Jaime at the sack of Highgarden and then at the Blackwater Rush, and he had the melted scars to prove it.  Harlan gave the lad a few more scouts and told him to watch the man.  When they spotted his golden hand hidden beneath a glove, Harlan had been convinced.

Just then, that very scout appeared at the tent.

“Commander, I have report,” he panted.  He sounded winded and his breath appeared in the frigid air in crystallized puffs.

“Go ahead,” Harlan said.

“He’s left the Kingsroad!”  The scout’s face was a mix of excitement and awe.  The fact that his men loved Ser Jaime was not lost on Harlan, and he could not blame them after hearing the first-hand accounts of the battle against the dragon.  Ser Jaime had stood by his men, refusing to abandon them, and there was little else a commander could do that would more effectively earn the love of his troops than that.  Except perhaps engage a dragon in single combat, and he’d done that as well.

“Go on boy, where is he going?” Raleigh prodded.

“He’s turned west, Ser, into the Riverlands.”

Now that was unexpected, and it was enough to force Harlan’s hand.  “Bring him in,” Harlan commanded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is Brienne and the Hound :D I should have it up this weekend. Thanks so much for reading!


	4. The Kingsroad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne begins her solo journey back to Winterfell, but she's not alone for long.
> 
> Thank you Ill Tempered Clavier for your beta help, its so much appreciated :)

**The Kingsroad**

 

After the hell of the Dragonpit, Brienne had found herself alone on the Kingsroad, squireless and confused.  Tyrion had approached her briefly after he’d returned from seeing his sister.  The little Lannister had told her he had no time to explain, but that he believed her life would be in danger if she remained in the city overnight.  Brienne had been hesitant to leave without Podrick, but Tyrion had assured her that Bronn would take care of him.  They would probably meet on the Kingsroad, Tyrion had said, and then had all put pushed her up into the saddle in his efforts to get her out of there.

She could only assume it had something to do with the bizarre, non verbal power struggle that had occurred between she and Cersei.  Brienne was no fool, but what a joke it was that Cersei was threatened by her.  Cersei, the petite blonde beauty, as cunning and she was beautiful.  Ever since Brienne had met Jaime’s sister at King Joffrey’s wedding, she’d known the woman hated her.  With only four words, Cersei had stripped her bare and shamed her in such a way that it still made her cringe at the thought.   _ But you love him.  _

Brienne let out a long breath that turned to a frosty haze before her eyes.  It would do no good to ponder any of that now.  Jaime had been cold to her in the pit, but the Lannister forces would join the war against the undead.  That was all that mattered, wasn’t it?

She shook her head then gathered her bearings.  She’d made good time and would reach the Inn of the Ivy before nightfall.  The inn stood three stories tall with dark pine beams and white walls the color of cream, and, if her memory served, there was a bathhouse as well.  She and Podrick had stopped there on the last night of their journey south.  They’d been in too much of a hurry to stay, but had gotten supper in the common room before riding through the night to reach King’s Landing on time.

The comforts of an inn appealed to her.  She’d gotten used to castle life at Winterfell where hot food, a comfortable bed, and a bath were available at any time.  The road had been hard on her.  She’d been nearly skin and bones by the time she’d finally gotten Lady Sansa back to her brother at Castle Black.  At Winterfell, she’d regained her strength and them some, and had put back on the weight she had lost.

Twilight fell and the inn appeared from between the leafless trees, warm and inviting.  She could smell woodsmoke and meat cooking, and her stomach grumbled.  She was about to spur her mare into a trot when she noticed a dark figure on the side of the road, all in black leather and dirty steel.  As she drew closer, she saw that greasy black hair hung over his face, and a dark beard obscured the rest, but his sheer size and the scar gave him away.  He was wrestling with a saddlebag.

“Sandor,” she said.

“Thought that was you,” he replied, not looking up from his task.

Brienne did not know how to respond to that, so she sat there awkwardly on her horse.

“You staying at the inn tonight?” he asked.

“I plan to.”

He finally seemed satisfied with whatever he was doing to his saddlebag and then turned to look at her.  “I’ll see to your horse if you get me some dinner.  Chicken, if they’ve got it.”

So he took her horse and she got his chicken, and that was how she and the Hound became traveling companions.  Brienne did not mind, and, truth be told, it was unwise to travel the Kingsroad alone.  Once the inns grew fewer and farther between, she would have had to take her chances and sleep out in the open with no one to take watch.  At least this way they would be able to rest in shifts.  And the Hound cut a formidable figure - from a distance they would give bandits second thought about troubling them.

The Hound was an interesting man.  He was brutish and hardened, and she would have sworn that his soul was blackened to a crisp, except then he would surprise her with a little story of one of the Stark girls or of one of his companions on his trek beyond the Wall.  He would be silent for such a long time that she almost wondered if he had forgotten she was there, and then suddenly he would bark out some comment at her.

And gods he was massive.  He came into the steaming bathhouse at the Inn of the Ivy on their first night together.  She ducked down further into her tub in the corner of the room, self-conscious of her nakedness, but was unable to look away from him.  Thick, black hair covered his scar-riddled body.  Stab wounds, jagged tears, and slender slices all marred his skin.  He either did not notice her or did not care as he let his bath towel fall to the floor to reveal the thick forest of dark hair that covered the place between his legs and crept down the insides of his thighs and up his hard belly.  Each muscle was perfectly defined beneath the tapestry of war that was his flesh, and she wondered how she ever survived fighting against him in single combat.  The man who stood before her would overpower her now, she had no doubt.  It was shameful to be gawking at him in this way, so she forced herself to avert her eyes and hid in the plumes of steam until he finished his bath and left.

 

They were a day’s ride out of Darry when a heavy snow began to fall.  The Kingsroad was becoming more crowded, clogged with smallfolk fleeing the winter.  Riverlanders, mostly, with some from the Neck, though most of the northerly people would try their luck in White Harbor or the Vale if they’d have them.

“Where did Arya learn to fight?” the Hound asked and slowed his mount to walk next to hers.

“I thought perhaps you had taught her,” Brienne replied, though Arya’s style was foreign now that she thought about it, so it could not have been the Hound.

“Wasn’t me.”

“When did you last see her?” Brienne asked.

“Right after you tossed me off a cliff.  Tried to get her to end it for me, but she left me to die.”

Brienne’s brow furrowed.  “Perhaps she thought you should live.”

“Tried everything to get her to do it,” and the Hound’s voice flickered with a hint of emotion, a strange, strangled sound.  “Talked about killing her friend and fucking her sister bloody, but it didn’t work.  And then she took my wine and left me to suffer.  You think she’s some kind-hearted little girl - you’re dead wrong.”

Brienne had stopped breathing and her ears were ringing.   _ Fucking her sister bloody. _  Had the Hound just told her he’d raped Sansa Stark?  Her hand gripped Oathkeeper and she stopped her horse.  The Hound went on a few paces then stopped as well and turned his mount around.  Suddenly his face looked dark and dangerous.

“Did you rape Lady Sansa?” Brienne said through gritted teeth.

The Hound took measure of her, saw her hand on her sword.  “And what if I did?”

“I will kill you again, and this time for good.”  It took great effort to keep her voice from wavering, and she could feel the adrenaline pumping through her veins, igniting her muscles.

The Hound sat silent for a few long moments, then snarled out a laugh.  “Well, good thing I didn’t then.  I don’t think you’re ready to die.”

Brienne took a deep, loud breath through her nose and released her grip on Oathkeeper.  Her heart hammered in her chest and she thanked the gods that he had not done it.  There was a very good chance he would have won this round.

“No, Sansa had enough troubles in King’s Landing.  She hated me for awhile, but if she’d ended up married to that cunt Joffrey, I would have been the only one able to protect her.  I tried to get her to come north with me after the Blackwater, but she stayed.  Thought she’d be safer there.”  The Hound scowled then, and spurred his horse into a trot, pulling away from Brienne and signaling the end of their conversation.

They decided to push on into the night to reach Darry instead of sleeping on the ground.  The castle was held by Lannister forces, and in an effort to remain anonymous, they avoided the castle and took a room at an inn in the surrounding town.

The inn was a two-story brick building, ancient and covered in patches of mortar that kept the walls together.  Someone had put a new thatched roof on recently, and the smell of hay and horseshit hit them as they entered the stables to take care of their mounts.

“Sers, may I take your horses?” a stable boy asked anxiously.  He mistook them for knights and was hopeful for a coin or two.

“I’m no -” the Hound began, but Brienne cut him off.

“Thank you, boy,” she said and gave the Hound an irritated look.  His face darkened, and she almost thought he may be reddening with embarrassment, but he handed the reins over and said no more.

The innkeeper had one room left so they took it and after putting their traveling things away, they went to the common room.  It bustled with soldiers, mostly clad in the red and gold uniform of the Lannister army, but they were off duty and drinking.  Brienne sat at the bar and found herself eavesdropping on the conversations around her, absurdly listening for any story of Jaime.  The Hound eventually slid onto a stool next to her and began drinking ale with abandon.

“I don’t trust a man who doesn’t drink,” the Hound said as he tipped back his third mugful.

“One of us needs to stay alert,” Brienne said with a scowl.  In truth, she never drank because she had no one to drink with.  She had no taste for wine and no women friends besides, and she had never felt safe enough amongst the soldiers to imbibe.  She feared getting drunk and being made a mockery of, or worse, raped.

“I’m plenty alert.  Here,” the Hound slid his fresh mug in front of her.  “Drink.  You might be surprised, some people fight better drunk.  Thoros of Myr was bloody wasted when he scaled the walls of Pyke.”

“I don’t want to lose my senses,” Brienne said.

“You think I would try to fuck you, that it?  Well, sorry to disappoint you, Brienne of  _ fucking _ Tarth, but ever since you punched me in the balls my cock shrivels at the sight of you.”

“That is not what I meant.”  But she took the mug and started drinking.

After she downed the first pint easily, she came to realize she enjoyed the taste of ale.  And this was no common ale.  It was a Gulltown Red, according to the Hound, who kept tipping back his glass with no sign of stopping, and he lead her to believe that it was something of a rarity.  All she knew was that she felt warm and safe, and the tightness in her shoulders and jaw began to relax.  After her third drink, she began to smile for no particular reason.

She’d just been about to excuse herself to their room, for she had had quite enough to drink and was worried about falling flat on her face when she slid off the barstool, when a group of soldiers began talking in boisterous voices at the other end of the bar.

“I felt like I were in one of the seven hells.  Fire everywhere.  Men screaming and clawing at their burning clothes, all the while the horsemen was bearing down on us.  And sometimes the sky above me would go black as the dragon passed over me, like the Stranger himself,” one soldier said.

“Fucking Seven,” another man said.

“Ser Jaime never left.”  The soldier’s voice was halting and stoic.  “He could have turned tail and went to the city, but he didn’t.  He stayed with us.  I remember looking at his face and feeling calm, as if I were looking on the face of my father.  We would have all died if it weren’t for him.  I fell beneath a horse, twisted my leg, but I still saw it.”

“Saw what?” someone prompted.  Their voices were slurred and full of awe.

“I saw him looking around, like he were lost or sad.  And then he picked up one of the horsemen’s spears and faced the dragon.”

“Bloody fucking hells....” someone muttered.

“He took up the spear and charged.  It was like I were dreaming.”

Her heart hurt in her chest as she listened.  It was Jaime, her Jaime, they spoke of with such reverence.  Jaime Lannister, the man who believed he was irredeemable and without honor.  The thought of him charging a dragon made her grab at the edge of the bar as she imagined it.  It did not help matters that she was seeing double.  Somewhere along the way, she’d gotten completely drunk.  Gods, if Jaime were here right now, she was ashamed of what she would do.

“So, you going to let that ginger idiot fuck you?” the Hound’s voice cut in.

“I beg your pardon?” she snapped, irritated to be so abruptly pulled out of her daydream.

“The wildling.  Crazy fucker.  He was going on and on about you.”

“Quiet!” she hissed.  The Lannister soldiers had begun talking about the movement of troops.  The Lannister forces would assemble at Harroway and then march north together.  Jaime would be there and -

“Need me to give you a minute alone?”  The Hound’s growled, intruding yet again.

“What do you mean?” she said, but she hid behind her mug, fearing she’d been found out.

“Don’t play coy with me,  _ Lady _ Brienne.  You look like you want to fuck until your eyes roll back in your head.  Hearing about the fucking Kingslayer’s got you all hot and bothered.”

“It does not.  I just -”

“You want his cock,” the Hound said, cutting her off.  “You want to ride the Kingslayer’s fucking cock harder than you thunder around on that pretty mare of yours.”  The Hound downed the rest of his ale and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, grinning like he had just figured out some great secret.

“I do not want his …”  Brienne paused, unwilling to say the word.

“Say it.  Cock.  COCK.”

That drew the looks of the Lannister soldiers at the other end of the bar and she ground her teeth together.  Bloody hells, whatever would make him shut the fuck up.

“Cock,” she muttered.  The word felt strange on her tongue and she wondered if she’d ever said it before.

“Good.  And you do want it.”

Brienne felt her face begin to draw up into a nasty scowl.  She wanted to bash the Hound’s grinning face in, or scream, or smash her mug over his head. His words were crude and vulgar, and the feelings she had for Jaime were pure and came from a place of deep trust and respect and, and… she did want it.  She felt a shy smile bloom unbidden upon her face, heat rose to her cheeks, and it was as if the drink that was blurring her vision had also made things clear.   _ So what if I fucking want it. _

The Hound saw this change in demeanor and barked out a laugh, then slammed his palm on the bartop and ordered another round.  Brienne covered her mouth with her hand as she was on the verge of breaking into girlish giggles.  This was ridiculous.  She would never admit something like that to herself, let alone the fucking  _ Hound _ .  What was bloody happening to her?

“I knew it,” the Hound said smugly and pushed a fresh mug of ale in front of her.  “The Kingslayer and Brienne of fucking Tarth.  I like it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will be a continuation of this one, but I thought this was a good stopping point. I hope you enjoyed the Hound and Brienne together and thanks so much for reading :D


	5. Near the God's Eye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime crosses paths with the Lannister forces garrisoned at Harrenhal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much Ill Tempered Clavier for your help with this chapter, from grammar and plot structure to Jaime accidentally having two hands again! :D

**Near the God’s Eye**

 

The snow fell heavy, blanketing Jaime’s cloak and covering his mount’s mane in a sparkling veil.  He finished off his last bit of bread in the saddle and then washed it down with water collected from melted snow.  It had been two days since he’d turned west into the Riverlands and he was just rounding the northern shores of the God’s Eye.  He’d decided to stick to the game trails that surrounded the fields of Harrentown, not willing to risk venturing too close to the Lannister forces that were garrisoned at Harrenhal.  The snow muffled the horses’ hoofbeats so he only realized he was being followed when it was far too late to escape.

“Ser Jaime,” a man called out.  Jaime whipped his head around and saw a mounted scouting party approaching him from behind.  They were in plain clothes but he immediately saw the Lannister sigil on their mounts’ saddle buckles.  He kicked his heels into his horse’s flanks and set off at a gallop down the trail.  The wind bit at the exposed skin of his face that his beard did not cover and for a moment he thought he had a chance to escape, but then he rounded the next turn and saw more soldiers blocking the way across a stony bridge.  The bridge looked familiar and he frowned as he studied it.  He was beginning to recall a particularly ill-timed sword fight with his wench.   _ Is this our bridge? _

“Ser Jaime,” a voice broke into his thoughts.  “In the name of Queen Cersei, first of her name, you are charged with treason.”  The soldier sounded tentative, and when Jaime met his eyes, he saw melted scars upon the man’s face.  A boy, really.  He was young, perhaps young enough to have been Jaime’s son.

“How long have you been following me?” Jaime asked.

“Ser Jaime,” the lad either ignored his question or did not hear it from nerves, “Please, surrender yourself or we will have to take you by force.”  The boy’s slender hand shook as he reached for the hilt of his sword.

Jaime hung his head in the saddle and ground his teeth.   _ Gods fucking dammit, Cersei.  You let me go just to put a bounty on my head?  These boys have no choice, and I can’t fight them all, nor do I wish to. _

“Where will you take me?” Jaime asked, resigned to his fate.  There might still be a way out, but fighting ten men was not it.

“To Harrenhal, Ser.  Drop your sword.”

Jaime did as he was instructed and Widow’s Wail slid from his hip and onto the frosty ground.   _ Widow’s Wail, what a stupid name.  The Queen of Thorns was right. _

The man hopped from his horse and picked up the Valyrian steel blade and nodded to Jaime.  “Thank you, Ser.  And I must ask that you unglove your right hand.”

“What?” Jaime replied.  

“Please, Ser.  I’m sorry, but my commander orders it.”

Jaime ungloved his golden hand and stuffed the glove into his saddle bag.

“Anything else?  Perhaps a song and dance for him when I arrive?  Who is your commander?” Jaime asked.

“Ser Harlan Swyft,” he answered, and looked like he wanted to say more, but only furrowed his brow in a pained expression. Then someone grabbed his reins and they turned back east toward Harrenhal.

 

The gates of Harrentown stood open at the noon hour, and a decent number of people were passing in and out of the town.  It seemed that the town was a refuge for the Riverlanders.  It was surrounded by a tall, solid log perimeter that was essentially impenetrable to anyone lacking siege weapons, and with the Lannister forces garrisoned at the castle beside it, it was one of the safer towns for people to seek refuge in.

“Move away from him and pull back his hood,” the lead scout said.  Upon closer inspection, the lad’s scars looked fresh.  His skin glistened and appeared to melt in the noonday sun.  Had the boy fought the dragon with him?  Jaime’s arms were bound behind his back, but someone grabbed the nape of his cloak and pulled away the fabric, exposing his face.

“I’m sorry, Ser Jaime, but I have my orders.”

_ They are making a spectacle of me.   _

“Make way for the Kingslayer!” the lead man shouted as they passed through the gates.  The smallfolk hustled to the side of the road and then stared at him awestruck, some pointing to his golden hand.  Jaime squared his jaw and stared straight ahead, but did take note of the condition of the town.  The buildings stood in good repair with freshly-thatched roofs and mortared walls.  The people did not appear to be starving, and they had no fear of the Lannister soldiers as they parading him down the street.   _ The men are at least treating the smallfolk well. _  He would commend their commander for that, though he doubted he’d get much of a chance to say anything before getting thrown in a cell.  It took ten minutes or so to reach the southern gate, and then the monstrous castle appeared.

Harrenhal loomed dark and broken before him.  Blackened mortar and charred stone made up its towering walls, and as they drew closer, Jaime saw the bear pit lurking off to the left of the mammoth courtyard.  To think, a dream sent him back for her.  He would never forget the feeling of seeing her down there, bloodied and armed with nothing but a wooden sword.  It was an adrenaline rush like he had never felt before.  And now, in hindsight, he could acknowledge the sheer terror he felt at the prospect of seeing her ripped apart before his eyes.  He’d jumped down, and even when faced with the gaping maw of death itself, they’d still found time to bicker.  He chuckled to himself and one of his guards gave him a wary glance.

They moved into the camp surrounding the castle.  A field of red tents, stables, and cook shanties.

“Ser Jaime, the commander will see you in his tent.  Untie him.”

The men freed his arms and Jaime slid off his horse, then ducked beneath the tent flap that the scout held back for him.

Ser Harlan Swyft looked up from his scrolls, then upon recognizing him, scrambled to his feet.  Jaime knew the face and the sigil upon his breast.  He may not have been good with written words and figures, but he had a knack for remember the faces of his men.

“Ser Jaime,” he said.  “I can’t believe you’re truly here.”

“Quite honestly, neither can I.  So, am I to be sent back to King’s Landing, or does my sister prefer me to rot in a cell right here?”

Before he could get an answer, the tent flap opened and three more soldiers entered.  These men he recognized as well.  He’d last seen them in King’s Landing just before Cersei had told him the truth of her plans.  They’d been organizing the march north.  These were his generals.  Ser Harys Swyft, Ser Lyman Lefford of the Golden Tooth and Lord Damon of House Marbrand.  Lord Damon was the father of Ser Addam, Jaime’s childhood friend, and Jaime could have sworn that Lord Damon gave him a fatherly smile for a moment before his face returned to that of a hardened man-at-war.  What the bloody hells was going on here?

“You won’t be doing either of those things,” Harlan said, referencing Jaime’s earlier question.  Then he gave him back Widow’s Wail, offering it balanced between his two hands.

“We stand at your command,” Ser Harys Swyft’s voice boomed out.

Lord Damon stepped closer to him and met his eyes.

“Our swords are yours, Ser Jaime.”

 

This was treason, he told them, but they only stood taller and squared their shoulders.  They were aware of the implications.  Then he told them about the Golden Company’s impending arrival.

“Is there no way to stop this?” Ser Harlan said.

“The Golden Company has never broken a contract,” Ser Lyman said.

“I need to send a raven,” Jaime said.  He needed to send a raven to Tyrion.  His brother needed to know what was happening.  If anyone could break this contract, it would be him.

“Come, I will take you to the castle, but give me your golden hand first.”

Jaime looked at Harlan with suspicion.  For whatever reason, he did not want to give up the hand.  No, that wasn’t true, he knew why.  He did not want these men to see his stump.

“I need it to complete the ruse,” Harlan added.

Jaime took the hand off and gave it to him.  Harlan wrapped it in a burlap sack and then nodded for Jaime to follow him.  The cold wind tossed his hair as they stepped outside, and their boots crunched in the snow.

“I will take you to the rookery so we can send your message, but you’ll need to write it out before we get there.  You cannot be seen sending ravens; I will do that part for you.  Then I want you to meet our blacksmith.  He can make you something for that arm, something useful.  Has the muscle wasted away?” 

“No,” Jaime said.  Qyburn had seen to that.  The old man had given him a regimen of exercises to perform to keep his right arm strong.  At first, he’d thought the gesture altruistic, but then when he’d see Qyburn staring with unadulterated fascination at the wight’s hand in the pit, Jaime began to suspect that Qyburn had darker plans for his stump.

Harlan made a stop in the large courtyard and handed off the sack containing Jaime’s golden hand to one of his soldiers.  The soldier stood next to a farmer who had dirty blond hair and a grizzly beard.  The right sleeve of his shirt was pinned closed over where his hand should have been.  Jaime met the man’s eyes and they held each other’s gaze for a moment.

“Your decoy,” Harlan said.  “He will sit in a cell and wear your hand, and in exchange he and his family will given food and shelter behind the castle walls.”

Harlan was clever, and he must have been planning this for some time.  He’d paraded Jaime through Harrentown on purpose, so the smallfolk would see him in chains, a prisoner of the Crown.  Word would spread like wildfire.

 

They entered the castle and climbed the steps to the rookery.  The stones were splattered with white bird shit, and a dusting of black feathers floated into the air as they climbed, kicked up by their feet.  Harlan had him wait in an alcove down the hall out of sight while he retrieved scrolls, ink, and a quill. Jaime wrote as succinct and clear of a message as he could to Tyrion, attempting to explain everything that had transpired on a scrap of paper small enough for a raven to carry.  Most importantly, he needed Tyrion to know about the Golden Company.  He wrote another with the same message, then Harlan went back to the rookery.  He would send one scroll to White Harbor and the other to Winterfell.  Jaime hoped to catch Tyrion as soon as their ship docked, but there was a chance he would miss him.

Next, Harlan took him to the blacksmith who had set up shop in an alcove of the courtyard beneath one of the eaves.  There were bigger furnaces within the castle walls, Jaime knew, but it seemed that the blacksmith prefered to use his own equipment which was smaller but surely more familiar.

His name was Haryson Hill, and Jaime’s suspicions were confirmed when Harlan greeted him as “brother.”  It was difficult to say how old Haryson was because his face lay behind a mask of soot and sweat.  After introductions, Haryson asked him some questions about what he would like for his right arm and then began taking various measurements and jotting down the results.

“You will not be disappointed,” Harlan said after they left the blacksmith to his work.

“He’s your brother, then?” Jaime asked.

“Yes, by my father’s mistress.”

Jaime nodded.  Sometimes he wondered if he truly had no bastard siblings out there somewhere.  Perhaps a Tyson Hill or Tylan Waters.  He doubted he would ever know for sure.

“I will take you to your tent, Ser Jaime, so you can bath and rest,” Harlan said.

“Is there no room in the castle?” Jaime asked.

“You would stay here?” Harlan asked hesitantly.

“You don’t?”  Ah, the curse.  Harrenhal could make even the most astute men nervous.

“I just thought perhaps, since you lost your hand here, it would bring back unpleasant memories.”

“I didn’t lose my hand here.”   _ No, in fact I found something here… acceptance. _  “Take me to my room.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brienne and Hound are up next, thank you so very much for reading!


	6. Darry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne and the Hound continue their night of drinking, then hear some interesting news in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brienne and Hound POVs. Thank you Ill_Tempered_Clavier for the beta; it's so helpful.

**Darry**  


 

Sandor Clegane was not a talker.  In general he did not like others who were.  It seemed that anyone with a sword and a title had a propensity to run their cunt mouth about things that were not their concern.

But as he and Brienne of fucking Tarth downed one ale after the next, he found that she talked more and more, and he was yet to be annoyed by her.  In fact, he was enjoying her company quite a bit.  As she became drunker, her voice deepened and her words took on a melodic quality, languid and full as they rolled off her tongue.

“You killed Stannis, then?” He prompted her to continue her tale of rescuing Sansa Stark.  Something deep down in his chest began to burn as the story unfolded, as he found out what had befallen his little bird in the North.

“Stannis murdered Renly with blood magic.  I saw to it that justice was served.”  Her lip curled up in a snarl as she spoke those last words, and he could tell she was reliving the moment in her mind’s eye.  She paused to take a deep drink then wiped her lips with the back of her hand.

“Renly was kind to me, and handsome and just.  I know I am nothing to look upon, but he saw past that.”

“You think you’re ugly, girl?  Take a look at me.”  Sandor found himself pushing his hair away from his face and leaning in close to her.  “Aye, look.”

In that moment as she looked straight back at him, he realized she had beautiful eyes.  Deep pools of blue.  She did not recoil from him.

“I can’t even pay a whore enough to look at my face while I fuck her.  They always turn away.  Not that I’ve had many whores lately.”   _Ah fuck, stop talking you dumb shit._ She carried a sword but she was still a highborn lady, and she did not need to be subjected to a drunken rant about fucking whores.

“I will have you know that I do not place much stock in appearances,” Brienne said softly to him, as if she were trying to cool him off.  Normally he would be annoyed, but for whatever reason he was going to let her get away with it.  She wobbled on her stool then leaned on the bartop and drew conspiratorially close to him.  “I saw you in the baths.”

 _What the bloody fuck?_  “What baths?”

“At the Inn of the Ivy.  You’re a well-built man, Sandor.  The Warrior made flesh.”  She gripped her hand into a fist as she said the last word with relish.

Sandor’s heart had stopped, he could swear it, and he screwed his face up into a look of confusion.

“Perhaps if you would comb your hair and dress a bit nicer, you wouldn’t look so frightful.”

What the fuck.  Had Brienne of fucking Tarth just told him to comb his hair?

He barked out a laugh.  “You think so, do you?  I should just run a comb through my hair and all my problems will be solved?”

Brienne hiccuped.  “Well it can’t hurt,” she slurred.  She reached for her mug and knocked it over, spilling ale across the bartop.  She looked at it as if she could not comprehend the physics of what had just happened.

“Alright, that’s enough for you, dearheart,” the matronly tender said as she wiped up the ale.  “Time for bed.”

Brienne frowned, then slid off the barstool and promptly fell to her knees.  They cracked against the floor.  “Ow.”

“Alright, girl, come on.”  Sandor said and hauled her to her feet.  Her legs were useless, so he scooped her up and flung her over his shoulder.  “You’re lucky it’s me,” Sandor said.  “I don’t think your pretty Lannister could manage.”

Brienne mumbled something into his back as he carried her up the stairs.

 _Well done, Clegane._  Tyrion Lannister had said it to him the last time he’d had a maiden over his shoulder, back in King’s Landing when he’d saved Sansa from rape.  He’d wanted to rip the cocks off every last one of them, but he’d had to settle for disembowelment.  And here he was, another bird, a different cage.  But this one was both a maiden and a killer.  And she was one big fucking bird.

He deposited Brienne into the lone bed in their shared room and tossed a blanket over her.

The fire in the hearth snapped and crackled, calling to him.  Sandor lay down on the floor before it and gave himself to the flames.

 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

 

She dreamt she was kneeling in a riverbed.  Sharp stones gouged her knees, but all she could think about was water.  She drank and drank the crisp, cool liquid with abandon, but no matter how much she took in, it wasn’t enough.

When she woke up, she was laying in a tiny bed huddled beneath a scrap of blanket.  Her head pounded and she was so thirsty that at first she didn't even notice the Hound as she stumbled to the pitcher on the little round table near the door of their room.  She lifted it to her parched lips and drank deep.

 _Gods, the ale._  She could scarcely remember the end of the evening, but she knew she’d drank too much and hadn’t eaten a thing.  Her knees ached and she had a foggy recollection of falling off her barstool.  Then being carried up the stairs like a sack of potatoes.   _Oh gods._

The Hound was laying flat on his back before the fire.  Not too close, but close enough, as if he was both wary yet drawn to it.  She thought he was sleeping, but then he turned away from the hearth for a moment and gave her a once-over look.

“You alright?” he asked.

“I suppose.”

He turned back to the flames.

The room began to spin as the shadows and light of the fire danced across the walls.  It was too warm and she stripped off her outer tunic then had to steady herself on the table.  He was watching the fire with rapt attention.  A log cracked and instead of jumping away, he leaned closer as if he were studying something.

“What are you looking at?” she asked.  Her voice sounded hollow and not her own.

“A girl with two faces… crossing the Narrow Sea.”

“What girl?”   _Bloody hells, I must still be drunk._

“Our girl.”

“Where is she going?”

“She’s not going, she’s coming back… but she hasn’t left yet.”

“Sandor... “ Brienne’s heart beat wildly in her chest, though she didn’t know why.  “Whose face is it?”

The Hound was silent, his great chest rose and fell, his hair hung limp across his haggard cheeks.

His brother had pushed him into the fire when they were children, she knew that much, and as the walls shifted around her and the heat of the fire beat into her skin, she asked the only other question she could..

“What did you say to your brother?”

“In the pit?” He bristled.

“No, before he pushed your face into the fire.  What did you say to him?”  

The Hound turned to look at her again and a chill ran through her.

“I told him how he would die.”

She took the pitcher of water back to bed and, her head pounding, prayed for sleep to take her.

 

When Brienne finally woke the next morning, the sun was high in the sky, peeking into the room through the frosty panes of the window.  Her whole body ached as if she had been riding all night but her headache was thankfully gone, and after cleaning herself up in the washbasin, she felt somewhat human again.  The Hound was absent but his heavy cloak still hung on the back of a chair so he was probably downstairs getting breakfast.  Her own stomach rumbled, so she ventured down herself.

The common room was full of Lannister soldiers, a sea of red and gold uniforms and polished steel.  From what she overheard, they would be continuing on to Harroway soon.  The smell of sausage and bacon sizzling in the kitchen made her mouth water.  The Hound sat at the bar, a hulking black shape in the ocean of red, and she took a seat next to him.  Her neck and cheeks burned with embarrassment at what had happened last night, but he only flagged down the tender so she could order some food of her own.

“The grease will help,” he said with a mouthful of eggs.  He ate like a wild animal, hunched over his plate and shoveling the food in with his hands.

They ate in silence for a time until the Hound finally spoke up.

“Want a drink?” he taunted.

“I’m never drinking again.”

“The warrior made flesh.  I think that’s how you put it.”  A haughty smirk played at the corners of his mouth.

Brienne’s eyes went wide as that bit of the conversation came flooding back to her.  “Bloody hells,” she grumbled and stuffed another sausage into her mouth.

“If I didn’t know any better, I would have thought you were after _my_ cock.”

“I’m sorry,” she muttered.  She’d only wanted to make him feel better about himself - she could relate too well with his feelings on his appearance.  She thanked the gods that beneath the layers of blackened leather and grimy steel, the Hound had proved to be an honorable man last night.  “Thank you for taking care of me.”

The Hound didn’t respond, only turned back to his food and resumed shoveling.

They ate in silence for a time, but the momentary peace was interrupted when a Lannister captain entered the inn, crashing through the door and sending it banging against the plaster wall.

“Gather up men!  We ride for Harrenhal!”

_Harrenhal?  That was south… they should be riding north._

She was just about to turn around in her seat when the Hound grasped her wrist and held it against the bartop, holding her in place.

“Ser Jaime Lannister is a traitor to the crown.”  The captain announced it to the entire inn, making sure everyone was listening.  “Queen Cersei is recalling her forces to protect her people here in the South from her treasonous brothers and the Dragon Queen.”

“Bloody hells,” the Hound murmured quietly, still holding her in place.  “I never thought I’d see the day.”

“I need to - ouch!”  He squeezed her wrist harder.

“Don’t move.  Don’t say a thing.  Just shut the fuck up for a bloody minute.”

The soldiers began talking, speaking over one another, disbelief and confusion in their voices, but the captain had more to say.

“Ser Jaime has been taken prisoner at Harrenhal and there will await the Queen’s justice.”

 _Oh gods._ She couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t think straight, but the Hound’s rough hand on her wrist anchored her to reality.  If Jaime was being held at Harrenhal, she could be there in two day’s time.  She would send a raven to Tyrion and King Jon.  They would know what to do.  It stuck in her craw, but the fact of the matter was that Jaime would not leave his sister without good reason.  She must have been planning a betrayal.

“I will send a raven to King Jon immediately,” she whispered.

Then the captain cleared his throat and took off his helm, cradling it stoically across his breastplate.  The inn grew quiet again.

“I bring other tidings.”  His voice was lonely in the silence and echoed around the common room.  “News from the North.  The Wall has fallen.”

“Seven save us!” wailed a woman seated at a table across the common room.  Brienne looked at her and saw she was dressed for winter in heavy furs and a hood.  Northern garb.  She would know the implications of that statement.  The rest of the inn did not quite comprehend it.  Before Brienne had seen the Wall with her own eyes, she couldn’t either.  Now that she had, she did, and she was terrified.

The Hound was... something else.  He leaned forward in his seat and rested his arms on the bartop.  He looked at the floor, and then his shoulders started moving up and down, and Brienne thought for a moment he was crying.  Then she heard his raspy laugh escape from beneath the mop of brown hair that hid his face.  The sound was unpleasant and then she began to feel sick.  The Wall was the last line of defense that kept the army of the dead out of the North.  What would happen now that it had fallen?  Defenseless people would be taken unawares in the night, food stores and wood piles would be abandoned in the frantic flight to Winterfell, and what of the men of the Night’s Watch?  The Wildlings?  Unlike a flesh and blood man, the dead could march all day and night with no need for food or water.  How would any of them escape?  Now more than ever, she knew the North needed reinforcements.

“Send your raven if you want, but from the sounds of it Snow’s got bigger problems now.”

He was right.  Even if Tyrion loved his brother dearly, as she suspected he did, there would be no resources to help Jaime now.  The North was in a fight for survival.

“Then I ride for Harrenhal immediately,” Brienne said.  “To negotiate Jaime’s release.”

“Ah, fuck, I thought you’d say that.”  The Hound crammed his last strip of bacon into his mouth and chewed it slowly, mulling over something.  “Alright then, let’s go.”

She had not expected that and looked at him in surprise.  Perhaps he saw in her a kindred spirit.  But then he sneered back at her.

“Oh, fuck off.  I just want to see you swing that fancy sword at someone other than me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for reading! I hope you are enjoying the story, and I appreciate any comments so much :) Sorry this chapter took a bit to get out, holiday craziness. I think the next chapter will be a continuation of this one.


	7. A Day's Ride North of White Harbor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you Ill_Tempered_Clavier for the beta and the feedback!

**A Day’s Ride North of White Harbor**

 

As Tyrion woke that morning in a cold tent, his legs and back aching from a day spent in the saddle, he realized that chances were dwindling for him to die in his preferred manner.  There was still plenty of wine, but no one had wrapped their mouth around his cock in ages, and at this rate there was no way he would be making it to eighty years old.

His tent had turned into a mound of snow overnight, so he had to push with all his might to get his tent flap to open.  The snow was waist deep on him, but fortunately would not present much of a challenge for their horses to move through.  He absolutely detested this weather, and riding, and more than anything, being separated from his Queen.  In some idiotic gesture of goodwill, Tyrion had offered to go on with Jon Snow to Winterfell while Ser Davos disembarked the ship at Dragonstone to remain at Daenerys’ side.  The rest of the forces sailed on to White Harbor.  Daenerys and Ser Davos would fly to Winterfell, leaving behind a skeleton crew to hold Dragonstone.  Now that a truce had been reached, it was safe to do so.

And what a miracle that was.  Tyrion had assumed he would be walking to his death when he went to meet Cersei alone.  But once Tyrion had figured out she was with child, he’d seized the chance to offer her what he knew she had always wanted.  Once the war was won, she and Jaime would be married and hold the Rock as its lord and lady.  Her child would be the legitimate Lannister heir.   _ Now I just need to tell Daenerys of this deal. _

He’d meant to inform her immediately.  He knew she would be wroth that he had made this agreement without her consent, but he was gambling that she would come around and see the logic of it.  Especially now that she had seen the true threat in the North and had lost a dragon to it.  Unfortunately, Daenerys had barely come out of her cabin the entire voyage.  Apparently getting fucked by Jon Snow was so amazing that she scarcely needed to eat, let alone get anything useful done.  Tyrion wasn’t jealous, at least he didn’t think so, but he was not happy about it either.  It was yet another unnecessary complication.

He’d barely gotten to his breakfast before all his plans came crashing down.

“Lord Hand, a rider for you,” one of the northmen said as he approached him.

“Oh gods, can I not have one moment of peace?” Tyrion grumbled, then stood up and began to push his way through the snow.  It was barely knee deep on an average height man, but it presented a challenge for Tyrion.  The northman watched him awkwardly, unsure if he should help him.

“Don’t.  Don’t say one fucking thing.  Unless you’re going to offer me a skin of wine.”

The northman dipped his head, ashamed.  Tyrion had not meant to be so harsh.  His temper had been growing shorter ever since setting foot back in Westeros.  The strategic manhandling he’d been dealt at the hands of his own brother hadn’t helped his mood.  He loved Jaime fiercely and had ever since they were children, but Tyrion had always assumed he was the smarter brother.  More fool him.

Tyrion was sweating beneath his furs by the time he reached the center of camp.  A rider covered in a layer of snow was just trotting into the clearing in the middle of the tents.  The horse quivered and it’s thick neck was slick with foam.  It’s breath puffed hard and fast into the cold air.  The animal had been ridden hard, probably through the night.  This urgency made Tyrion uneasy as he accepted the scroll from the rider.

“It arrived last evening, m’lord,” the rider said.

Tyrion turned the scroll over in his hands and noted the lion stamped into the sealed wax.  Another symbol next to it indicated its urgency, and his own name was written on the outside in an unfamiliar hand.  Curious.

“Where did the raven come from?”

“Harrenhal, m’lord.”

Tyrion frowned.  This was exceedingly strange indeed.  He broke the seal.

 

_ Brother, if you haven’t yet heard of my capture at Harrenhal, you will soon enough.  Cersei is betraying the truce.  She will not send the army north.  She made a contract with the Golden Company and Euron Greyjoy is on his way to get them.  Stop them. _

_ Do not worry about me.  It seems most of the army is loyal to me, and with any luck, I will fulfill my pledge to march north, but the Riverlands must first be stabilized.  If the North falls, it will be the next closest refuge - Jaime _

 

Tyrion’s jaw fell open.   _ Bloody fucking hells.   _ There was one more line scrawled at the very bottom in small block writing.  It referenced something from their childhood and confirmed that the scroll was truly from Jaime.

 

_ Septa Saranella’s smallclothes were red. _

 

It was a joke between them that he doubted even Cersei knew about.  They’d speculated that it was for their father that their childhood septa wore Lannister red beneath her dour robes.

He reread the scroll a few more times, then rolled it up and put it in his pocket.

“Well then,” he said as he stared off into the distance.  Nothing would focus as all he could think about was how wrong he had been.  He’d completely misread Cersei.  He’d offered her everything she’d ever wanted, or at least he thought he had.  Apparently, Jaime was not what she wanted after all.   _ Fuck fuck fuck. _  And the Golden Company.   _ Stop them.   _ He was flattered that Jaime thought he had a chance of breaking that contract.  But he would need help.  He needed to speak with Varys as soon as possible.

When he refocused, he saw Jon Snow standing across the fire, holding a scroll limply in his hand.  HIs face was pale in the flickering light of the flames.

“He sent you one too?” Tyrion asked and nodded to the scroll.

Jon seemed not to hear him.

“Tyrion, you stood atop the wall.  It’s enormous.  How is this possible?”  Jon shook his head.  “And the dragon.”

“What the bloody hells are you talking about?” Tyrion asked as he rounded the fire to stand before him.  He snatched Jon’s scroll from his hand and read that one too.  It was written in a simple hand, almost like a child who was just learning how to write.

 

_ The Wall has fallen - breached at Eastwatch. They have the dead dragon - Tormund _

 

A darkness pressed in all around him, and his ears rang.  He’d felt like this once before, on the eve of his execution in the black cells.  It felt like death.

Before the rider left, Tyrion had the capacity to send a scroll for Jaime back to White Harbor.  The wheels in his head were finally beginning to turn again in a way that they hadn’t since the Battle of the Blackwater.  The Green Fork cut a line nearly clear across the Neck.  If they needed to fall back to the Riverlands, it would be a natural defense.  The only problem was it would be frozen.

 

_ Hold the Riverlands from the Twins to Harrenhal.  The Wall has fallen. _

_ At last count, how many barrels of Wildfire has our sweet sister stockpiled? _

_ Stay safe brother - Tyrion _

 

Jon was feverishly writing his own messages.  One to Daenerys no doubt.  Another with orders for Winterfell.

“Did you write one to the old gods and the new?” Tyrion quipped under his breath.

Jon heard him and looked up from his scrolls.  “To save our sorry asses?”

“Yes, that, or to ask them to send lots and lots of wine, enough for me to be blackout drunk for the rest of winter.  Come, let’s speak to Varys.  I have other tidings from my brother you will want to hear.”

Jon followed him.  His men still called him King in the North, but he followed Tyrion like a son would a father.  Jon sought his advice and heeded his counsel even after Tyrion’s most recent plans had ended in disaster.   _ This plan will succeed.   _ It had to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some plot stuff here. The next chapter will be Hound and Brienne again, and I've got it started already so it should be done this weekend :) Thank you again for reading, I appreciate it!!


	8. The Road to Harrenhal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne and the Hound attempt to rescue Jaime.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to Ill_Tempered_Clavier for salvaging this chapter!
> 
> Thanks again for reading and I hope you enjoy :D

**The Road to Harrenhal**

 

“I cut down her damned butcher’s boy right around here somewhere.” The Hound’s gruff voice broke the snowy silence of the afternoon.  They had left the inn at Darry late that morning.  The horses were fresh and enjoying the mild temperature that was just cold enough to permit a light snowfall.  Flakes caught in Brienne’s horse’s mane and settled onto her own eyelashes only to fall and melt on her cheeks.

“She was fit to be tied.  Stupid boy.  He ran.”

Brienne listened to him without comment.  She’d heard this tale before in her drunken stupor of the previous evening.  The Hound either thought she didn’t remember or didn’t remember telling her himself.

“She had reason, I suppose.”

“She did,” Brienne said from behind him.  They stayed off the main road to Harrenhal, not wanting to attract the attention of the Lannister army that was mobilizing to march.

“Stop judging me.  I can feel you looking at me from back there,” the Hound growled.

“I’m not judging you,” she lied.

“You don’t know what it’s like.  To be someone’s sworn sword.”

“I swore my sword to Catelyn Stark,” she replied indignantly.  “I know precisely what it’s like.”

The Hound slowed his horse to fall into a trot beside her.

“No you don’t.  You swore your sword to a good woman by your own choice.  I was sworn into the service of that bloody family before I could even pick up a sword.  And Joffrey, what a sadistic little cunt.  You know what that’s like?  Standing by while that little shit of a prince orders Meryn fucking Trant to tear off a lady’s dress in the middle of court?”

“But you didn’t stand by.  You left.”

“Aye, I left.  But I should have done more.”

Brienne looked over at him and caught his eye.  “You are doing more now.”

“Yeah, I’m on my way to rescue a fucking Lannister.” He grumbled something unintelligible then dug his heels into his horse to pull away from her.  In that moment, the Hound reminded her of Jaime.  Her heart clenched at the thought.  What if he was transferred to King’s Landing before she got there?  What if her negotiations failed?   _And for that matter, what the bloody hells am I even going to say?_  She had one more day’s ride to think of something.  And her poor squire.  She’d assumed that Podrick was safe because of the truce and that perhaps he had fallen back in with Tyrion or Bronn, but with this new information, she feared greatly for his safety.  There was nothing to be done about it now.

 

“Had any bright ideas back there?” the Hound asked her that evening from where he road a dozen yards ahead of her.  They were passing through a wooded valley as dusk fell and would have to set up camp somewhere soon.  

“As a matter of fact, I have,” Brienne announced.  There was still the risk that the plan would fail, but she’d spent the better part of the afternoon mulling it over and had finally settled on it.

“Well, what is it,” he said impatiently.

“They follow their queen out of fear, but Jaime commands the respect and love of his men.  I believe they would honor their vow and follow him north, if given the option.  Especially after I impress upon them the gravity of the situation.”

She half expected the Hound to laugh at her and call her a fool, but he didn’t.

“I can’t imagine the army has any love for Cersei,” he said with a scowl.  “You know how many people she burned up in the Sept of Baelor?  Sure, she was never charged, but anyone with have a brain knows she did it.  Some of their high ranking officers lost kin there.”  Then the Hound shivered involuntarily, and Brienne felt a pang of sympathy for him.  Even the thought of fire was too much for him to bear.

Her horse bucked before she even felt the crossbow bolt punch through her thigh.  The animal nearly threw her but she choked up on the reins with both hands and managed to stay in the saddle.  The Hound turned back to look and then drew his sword when he saw the bolt.  “Where?”

“From the right,” she managed to say as pain bloomed in her leg.

“Fucking hells, follow me,” he said, intending to kick his horse into a sprint, but then a bolt struck his horse in the right hindquarter. The animal reared up then bucked the Hound off and galloped away down the road along with any hope of escape.  He scrambled to his feet, and it was the first time Brienne saw a hint of panic in his eyes.

He ran over and grabbed her horse by the lead then ran into the thick trees on the left side of the road.  He led them deep into the cover of the forest then took off his gloves and looked at her.

“I’m going to break that arrow off, and then you’re going to draw that sword and fight with me, understand?”

“Do it,” she replied and bit down on her glove as he snapped the end of the quarrel off.  The arrowhead had gone clean through her thigh and out the other side so he pulled the rest of the arrow forward and out that way.

“Shot in the ass,” he said and let out a grating laugh.  That irritated her and gave her a rush of angry adrenaline.  She jumped down from the saddle and ground her teeth together, gripping Oathkeeper, ready.

“Those bolts are few and far between. They’ve only got one crossbow.  Probably not many men either otherwise they would have ambushed us,” the Hound whispered.

Brienne nodded in agreement.

Then he gave her a genuine grin and charged through the trees.

She followed, the pain in her leg a forgotten afterthought, and he pulled up short of the open road and took cover behind the thick trunk of a pine.

“You’re fucking Kingslayer hates archers.  I have to agree with him on that.”

A bolt thunked into the pine.

“Would you fucking knock that off you stupid cunt!?  You think your going to shoot me through a bloody tree?” the Hound bellowed.

“Give us the Valyrian steel and we’ll let you be!” a gruff voice called from the opposite treeline.

The Hound turned to look at her.  “You couldn’t have a piece of shit sword like mine, could you?  Had to have your fancy fucking Valyrian steel.”  The bandits wouldn’t stop at the sword though, and both she and the Hound knew it.

“Would you focus?” she hissed.

“Ah, fuck it.  Get behind me.”  The Hound sheathed his sword and then reached into a mound of snow.  He grunted as he pulled out a massive dead branch, big enough to be a tree trunk in its own right.  He adjusted his grip on it so he could carry it as a shield in front of him.

“You know where the crossbowman is?” the Hound asked.

Brienne nodded, then he roared as he plowed through the edge of the trees and thundered across the road.  She followed at a sprint behind him.  A bolt thunked into the wood but she remained safely hidden.  Then another quarrel hit the ground to their left.  A swordsman stepped out of the trees to meet them, but before she could even react, the Hound smashed his face in with the hunk of wood.  Another bolt whizzed by them, and then she knew the crossbowman would be reloading so she took her chance and charged into the trees.  She found him easily, knelt down in the snow and frantically scrambling to reload.  She descended on him and cut him down.  Red blood splattered on white snow.

“I got him!” Brienne yelled back to the Hound as she whirled around to face another attacker.  He was smaller than her, but he still felt the need to taunt her.

“You’re a woman?”

Then another bandit appeared.  “Big, ugly bitch, more like.”

Brienne sneered and then swung her sword.  She pummeled her blade against the first man over and over, unleashing an unrelenting torrent on him.  The crisp winter air filled her lungs and her muscles burned, but she felt so good.  She landed a killing blow through his left shoulder, then continued on to the next man without stopping.

He fled from her and she chased him out into the road.  Before she could catch him, he stumbled right into the Hound who ran him through with an air of bored nonchalance.  The man fell dead into the snow to join the other three that the Hound had already killed.

The Hound wiped his blade then sheathed it.

“We need to get that leg seen to,” he said.  “It needs to be cleaned.”

“There’s no time for that.  If we delay we might miss him.  He could be on his way to King’s Landing already for all we know.”  She hated how panicked her voice sounded in her own ears.

“You’re a stubborn one, so I’m not going to try to fight you on this.  But you’re going to regret it.”

Brienne knew he was right, but so was she.  She would never forgive herself if Jaime was transferred before she got there.  “We are only a day’s ride out.  I’ll have it seen to once we get there.”

“Fine.  Now let’s go chase down my horse.”

 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

 

“Is it to your liking, Ser Jaime?” Haryson Hill asked as he watched Jaime nervously.  

Jaime, Harlan Swyft, and the blacksmith stood together in the courtyard of Harrenhal, next to the roaring furnace of the workshop.  Jaime flexed his right arm and watched the steel plate that covered it from shoulder to stump gleam in the firelight.  It was amazing work, especially in so short a time.  “It’s perfect.”

“It is reinforced with a woven thatchwork of metal on the back and then padded to absorb blows without breaking your arm.  You should be able to use it as a shield.”  The blacksmith added and a proud smile bloomed on his face.  “And at the end you can attach whatever you like.  The hook seemed most practical to start with.”

“You’ve managed to read my mind,” Jaime said as he turned his forearm back and forth and watched the hook turn with it.   _Much better than that useless golden hand._

“Thank you, Ser Jaime.”

“I’ll be in the baths,” Jaime said to Ser Harlan.  It had been a long day of standing hunched over a map, planning and organizing the Riverland forces.

“Yes, ser.”

Jaime left the brothers to their conversation and went back into the black behemoth of a castle, seeking the baths.

He’d given his orders to his generals that morning.  They would hold the Trident, and Jaime would go on to Riverrun and meet with Edmure Tully.  He hoped to bring the man around and leave him in charge of Riverrun.  For all the flack the younger Tully had taken from both Jaime’s family and from his own blood, Jaime still had faith in him.  Perhaps if he restored him to his rightful seat at Riverrun, they could reach something of a truce.  If he could locate Roslin Frey and the child, that would help.  Jaime cringed to think of the last conversation he’d had with Edmure.   _Nothing matters but Cersei, only Cersei._  Had he truly believed that, even then?   _And of course, the baby and the trebuchet._  Jaime groaned and shook his head as he entered the baths.

They were deserted for the most part.  In the dim light of the torches that lined the walls and through the rising steam, he could make out a few other figures sitting low in the tubs.  He unconsciously went to the same tub he’d been in with Brienne, only realizing it as he lowered his body into the hot water.

He sighed and laid his head back on the stones.  Where was she now, he wondered.  Had she gone with Tyrion?  If so, she would know of his situation.  But if she had taken the Kingsroad, she may not.  He wanted to see her.  He wanted her companionship and her advice.   _I miss her.  I’m a damned fool._

Before long, he closed his eyes and began to imagine the last time he’d been in this bath, confessing his darkest secrets as she sat across from him listening with wide blue eyes.  He smiled as he recalled insulting her, the image of her naked body impressed firmly in his memory.  Her taut, muscled arms.  Her gorgeous eyes casting daggers into him.  Even her little breasts had bounced indignantly.   _And her legs, gods._  He felt a stirring in his groin.

“Ser Jaime.”  A man’s voice broke his reverie.

Jaime cracked an eye open, a wave of hot embarrassment coursing through him, but the soldier standing over him did not seem to notice.

“Two riders just arrived.  Ser Harlan is speaking with them now.  One is the Hound, and the other says she is Lady Brienne of Tarth.  They say they are here to negotiate your release.”

  


\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

 

Harrenhal.  She hadn’t thought much about returning, but now that she was actually here again, it made her skin crawl.  As the Lannister soldiers led her past the bear pit and into the keep, she was overcome with an old feeling of desperation born of fighting a bear with a wooden sword.  She reached for the linear scars at her neck left by the bear’s claws.  Jaime had saved her then, and she could not fail him now.  At least he was still here.  The soldiers had informed her that he was locked in a cell in the bowels of the castle.

They led them to a small room off the main hall.  A dusty desk stood in the middle, and it looked as if it hadn’t been used in years.  The Hound shifted at her side as he looked around the room, black leather armor creaking.  Then a man with a hard face and dark, close-cropped hair entered the room, flanked by two guards.

“Ser Harlan Swyft, commander of the Lannister forces at Harrenhal,” a soldier announced formally.

Ser Harlan wore the full regalia of the Lannister army, complete with golden lion spaulders and the Lannister sigil across his chest.

“Lady Brienne.  Clegane,” he said as he glanced from her to the Hound.  They had not been stripped of their weapons, which Brienne found odd, but the soldiers were armed to the teeth, so perhaps they felt they were of little threat.

Brienne squared her shoulders.  “I am here to negotiate the release of Ser Jaime Lannister.”

Harlan raised one thick, black brow.  “I’ve heard.  My scouts have already informed me of this.  Ser Jaime is a prisoner of the Crown and therefore under no circumstances will he be released.”

“Ser Jaime is an honorable man, and he would not betray his queen unless he had good reason. The Lannister forces made a pledge to ride north and assist in the war efforts against the undead.  I’m certain you have heard that the army of the dead is real.  Sandor Clegane brought the monster from beyond the wall to King’s Landing to prove it.”

Ser Harlan pursed his lips and glanced to his left, to a door at the side of the room, as if he were waiting for someone.   _Am I wasting my breath?  Is this man not even the ranking commander here?_  Then he turned back to her.

“It is true, the promise was made.  But-”

“Ser Jaime is a true and honorable man.  Your men respect him and love him.  I’ve heard them myself, singing his praises.”

Then the Hound piped up.

“He’s no traitor.  It’s your fucking queen that’s the problem.  The lady and I are not leaving here without him.”

Brienne cringed.  The Hound had little patience for talking.  Then out of the corner of her eye she saw the Hound grasp the hilt of his sword and pull it from the scabbard a bit, just enough for them all to take notice.   _You idiot.  You’re going to get us both killed._  But the Hound wasn’t a fool, and he must have weighed and measured each man in that room and firmly believed he could take them all on.   _What then, Sandor?  A jail break?_

Then the side door opened and a man entered.  His wore the simple clothes of a sellsword and a he’d let his beard grow out, streaked with silver, but Brienne recognized him immediately. _Jaime??_ He scanned the room until he met her eyes, and then never looked away from her.  She felt like her heart was in her throat and her tongue tied as she just stared back at him.  He came to the center of the room.

“I wasn’t expecting company,” Jaime said and gave her that soft smirk she knew so well.

“We’re here to _rescue you_ ,” the Hound replied and cast a mocking smile in Brienne’s direction.  She felt heat beginning to creep up her neck.  She cleared her throat and set her jaw.

“We are here to negotiate your release,” she managed to say.

“Well, that is very kind of you both.”  Jaime smiled.  “But what makes you think I need rescuing?”

The Hound jammed his sword back into its scabbard.  “For fuck’s sake, I’m leaving.”  He turned and strode out of the room without another word.

Jaime motioned for the guards to let him go.  Then he turned his attention back to Brienne.  “Lady Brienne,” he said formally.  “Come, you must be hungry.  And I daresay you look weary from the road.  The baths here are lovely, perhaps you’ve heard of them.”  Jaime’s mouth twitched.  “Come, we’ll talk more in private.”  Gods, he was infuriating.  But seeing as she still was not quite sure what was going on, she conceded and followed him out, all the while feeling every pair of eyes stare at her as she left.

Jaime waited until they were out of earshot and then fell into step next to her.

“You’re injured,” he said with a furrow in his brow.  “What happened?”

This, of all things, was what he wanted to discuss first?   _How ridiculous._  She’d been making a conscious effort not to limp, but he’d still picked up on it.

“I took a crossbow bolt to the leg.  But Jaime-”

“Has a Maester seen to it?”

“Not yet,” she sighed.

“You should have had it cleaned right away.”  Jaime looked her over with concern.

“It was only yesterday.  We encountered bandits on the road.”  She was irritated now, and she grabbed his arm and pulled him to face her.  “I thought you were a _prisoner_ , Jaime.  What the bloody hells is going on here?”

“I’m sorry, Brienne.  Cersei has betrayed the truce.”

She snatched her hand away.  “The North must be made aware immediately.”

“It’s already been done.  I’d hoped you were with them.  I’m sorry,” he said again, more firmly and then met her eyes.  “Truly, Brienne.”  He was apologizing for something more, she knew, but she quickly squashed the thought.  She wouldn’t allow herself to think it.

“Come, I’ll take you to my quarters and let you rest while I send for the Maester.”

While Jaime was gone fetching the Maester, the Hound reappeared.  He was sweaty and red in the face, but his mood had improved.  He told her he’d been in the practice yard sparring with some of the soldiers.

“I’m certain you made a lasting impression,” she said and then winced.  She sat in a chair with her right cheek off the seat, balancing on he left.  Her thigh throbbed in pain with every beat of her heart and the flesh was hot and swollen.

“Told you you’d regret it,” he said then sat down in another chair.  “Where’s your Kingslayer?”

“He’s fetching the Maester.  And he’s not mine.”

The Hound grinned devilishly.  “Cock.”

She felt her neck and face redden.  “Stop. For the love of all the bloody gods, just shut the fuck up.”

The Hound nodded his concession, and the two of them sat in companionable silence waiting for Jaime.

 

When Jaime returned he looked from her to the Hound with a perplexed expression on his face.  Then he quickly schooled his features back to their usual nonchalance.

“The Maester will be here shortly.  As soon as he’s done setting the broken arm of one of the men you sparred with.”   Jaime looked pointedly at the Hound.

“He’ll be fine,” the Hound muttered.

Jaime pulled up another chair and sat down.

“Cersei believes me to be rotting in the dungeon here, just as you did.  But she’ll only be fooled for so long.  I need to secure the Riverlands, get every castle manned and bolster the supplies, from here to the Twins.”

“You mean to hold the Riverlands as a place to retreat to,” Brienne said with a dawn of understanding.

“I do.  Tyrion requested it of me.  As I’m sure you know, the Wall has fallen.  That does not bode well for the North.  I mean to go to Riverrun to free Edmure Tully and restore him as Lord of Riverrun.  The Riverlands needs a Tully as their leader right now.  The only problem is that Edmure is not going to be entirely pleased to see me.”

Brienne frowned.  “Why not?  You treated him honorably and took the castle without bloodshed.”

Jaime pressed his lips together, then looked up at her from beneath his brow.  “I told him that if he didn’t surrender the castle, I’d launch his baby son over the castle walls with a trebuchet.”

Brienne’s mouth fell open a bit.  “Of course you did.”

At the same time, the Hound let out a sharp laugh which turned into a rolling chuckle.  “Ah, you fucking Lannisters.”

“I would like you to come with me,” Jaime said, ignoring the Hound’s comment.  “As Sansa Stark’s sworn sword you would give weight to what I say.  He has no reason to mistrust you, and you saw what came out of that box in the Dragonpit as well as I did.”

“But what of my oath to Lady Catelyn?” Brienne replied.

“Your oath is fulfilled.”

“But they still need protection.”

“That’s not what you told me,” the Hound said.

“I’ll send another raven.  Tyrion will explain everything to them.”  Jaime said.  She wanted to read more into the pleading look on his face.   _Please, I need you._  But it didn’t matter what he might feel, or what she wished he would feel.  She realized she needed to help him in this task.

“Alright.  I will go with you.”

 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

 

Sandor, for his part, didn’t say much.  But gods, it was fucking painful listening to them talk to each other.  Dancing around what they really wanted to say.  He wasn’t sure how long he would be able to stand it.

Then the Maester walked in. He was ancient with a sharp nose and squinted eyes.

“Alright,” he croaked.  “Let me see the wound.”

He had Brienne lay down on the bed and shift the right side of her pants down.  She looked like she was in too much pain to worry about modesty anymore.  The puncture wounds left by the quarrel had scabbed over, but the flesh in between was angry red and swollen.  The Maester pressed on the puffy area and Brienne growled out in pain and turned her face into the pillow.  The old man shook his head.

“This will need to be lanced.  Infection has set in but it has no way to get out.  It should relieve the pressure.”

“How long will it take to heal?” Jaime asked.  His voice was laced with worry and Sandor glanced at him with a confused expression.  What was this woman to him?

“A few weeks, at least.  Here, my lady.  Drink this.”  The Maester handed Brienne a flask.  Milk of the poppy no doubt.

Brienne shook her head stubbornly.  Sandor rolled his eyes but Jaime came to the head of the bed and knelt down before her.

“Stop being so pig headed,” he scolded.  “Do as he says.”

“I will not,” she replied.

“Brienne, please.”

Gods all-fucking-mighty, it was ridiculous.  They bickered like an old farmer and his wife trying to decide what to have for fucking dinner.

Sandor stepped forward, grabbed the flask and thrust it into her mouth.  “Drink the fucking drink, girl.  You had no problem losing your senses back in Darry.”

Brienne sputtered and looked at him with a face that said she would punch him if only her ass cheek wasn’t hanging out.  But then she pulled the top off the flask with her teeth and drank.

“There, that wasn’t so hard now was it.”  As Sandor went to sit back down, he noticed that Jaime was looking at him with a dark expression.  To say he looked jealous didn’t do it justice.  Jaime was looking at him as if Sandor had fucked his wife. Or his sister.  So the Kingslayer returned Brienne of fucking Tarth’s affections. Sandor gave Jaime a loaded smile, unable to resist taunting him.

Once the milk of the poppy took effect, the Maester cleaned Brienne’s thigh with boiled wine, then cut into it with a hot scalpel.  Dark red blood mixed with yellow pus poured out.  As he pressed on the flesh around the cut, even more came forth.  Gods, it was an ugly wound, and it had festered quickly.  He thought he could even smell it.  When he looked back up toward Brienne’s face, he saw a sheen of sweat across her brow and her hand clutched firmly in Jaime’s own.

“There, all done my lady,” the Maester said.

“Thank you,” Jaime replied.

“Apply this poultice overnight and keep the area clean. I will check on her in the morning.  If all goes well, I should be able to stitch it closed then.”

After a sight that would turn most men’s stomachs, Sandor realized he was hungry, so he followed the Maester out in search of the kitchens.  He’d go on to Riverrun with them.  It was not time for him to turn North, not yet.


	9. Fairmarket/Harrenhal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a peek at Bronn/Pod, and then another Harrenhal section.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks Ill_Tempered_Clavier for the fast beta, you're awesome!

**Fairmarket**

 

“What should we do now, Ser Bronn?” Pod asked as they sat before the fire at a tavern in Fairmarket.

They’d been loitering around Lord Harroway’s Town, hoping to meet up with Jaime there, until news broke of his treason and subsequent capture.  When that had happened, Bronn and Pod had turned northwest.  He’d woken Pod in the middle of the night and, still half asleep, they’d made a hasty midnight escape.  With Jaime named a traitor, there would surely be a bounty on Bronn’s head, maybe even Podrick’s as well, and they weren’t going to stick around to find out.

“Well Pod, I’ve been thinking on it,” Bronn said and sipped his ale.  He leaned back in his chair and let out a contented sigh.  The heat felt so good.  Bronn knew exactly what they had to do next, but fuck, he was so bloody comfortable.  And the serving woman here was giving him the eyes.  Batting her lashes, brushing his hand when she refilled his mug, swaying her hips.  She had sharp blue eyes and looked to be in charge of the place, though the owner probably thought otherwise.  Just one night’s delay wouldn’t harm anything, would it?  Jaime could rot in a cell for one more night.   _Jaime will understand._

“Ah, fuck it.  Pod, get the horses ready.  We’re leaving.”

Pod frowned at him.  “Where are we going?”

“Harrenhal.”

 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

 

**Harrenhal**

 

Once the Hound and the Maester left, silence fell across the room.  Jaime stood up and Brienne let her fingers slip out of his hand. Her hair was in a blonde disarray, but her features had relaxed.  She looked comfortable enough for just having her leg lanced open.

“I can get the poultice ready,” Jaime offered and smiled tentatively.  Her face was unreadable, but he thought he saw a fiery anger burning somewhere in the back of her eyes and it made his shoulders tense.  He couldn’t blame her.  She’d gotten shot in the ass en route to Harrenhal on a completely unnecessary rescue mission.  Then she hummed something that almost sounded like words and smiled crookedly at him.  Jaime pressed his lips together to keep from grinning.  So, she was a lightweight.  He wondered if she’d ever even had milk of the poppy before.

“Thank you,” she managed to mumble and then curled into the pillow.

Jaime knelt before the fire and stoked the flames, then poured some water into a little black pot and slid it into the hearth.  He’d had the fire going since he’d first arrived, so the coals were red hot and would heat the water to a boil in no time.  By the time he turned back around, Brienne’s eyes were closed and she was snoring softly into his pillow.  There'd been a night or two that he'd dreamed of having her in his bed, but this wasn't quite what he'd had in mind.

He let her sleep as he prepared the poultice.  A fragrant aroma filled the room, a welcome smell after what had come out of the wound.  Then he took the bundle of fabric and herbs and sat on the bed next to her.

“Brienne.”

She furrowed her brow and shifted in the blankets but did not open her eyes.

“Brienne,” he said more sternly.  “Brienne, wake up.”

She cracked one eye open and looked up at him groggily.  “What?” she said in a grumpy voice.

“Your poultice.  Here, put it on your leg.”

She groaned took it from him with some difficulty then pressed it onto her wound.  She winced, then took a breath and sighed as the heat worked its way into her flesh.

“Hold it there.”  He retreated to sit in a chair near the hearth.

He watched to make sure she kept the concoction on her leg for the prescribed amount of time, then he took it back from her and threw it in the fire.

“Get some sleep.  I’ll bring you some food later, once your _senses_ have returned to you.”  He hadn’t meant to say it the way it came out, but he couldn’t get whatever had happened in Darry out of his mind.

She nodded, looking slightly more aware, enough so that he felt comfortable leaving her to sleep on her own.  Truth be told, he’d rather just sit here and forget everything else that was happening outside his room. He just wanted to be with her, the urge was overpowering, but neither surprising nor frightening in any way.  It was comforting.

 

He met one of his commanders outside the castle walls in the cook tents.  Jaime still found it preposterous that most of the men would not stay inside the castle, but superstitions ran deep and traveled down the ranks to even the squires’ and cooks’ ears.  If Ser Harlan would not stay in the castle, then why the hells would they?

“Ser Jaime, how is the Lady Brienne?” Ser Harlan asked as a serving girl heaped food onto their tin plates.  The aroma of hot beef stew and potatoes seasoned with rosemary made Jaime’s mouth water.

“The wound will heal.  She is sleeping now.”

“I spoke with Sandor Clegane,” Ser Harlan said.  “He told me about the creature,” Harlan paused searching for a word.  “The wight, he called it.  I can still scarcely believe it.  But I do.  We will hold the Trident for you, Ser Jaime, I swear it.”  Ser Harlan said it with conviction, with an assurance that they would hold the castles or die trying.

Jaime only squared his jaw and nodded to him, but his commander’s words incited a warmth in his chest. He truly could not ask for any more loyal or brave of men, and that they chose to follow him filled him with pride.

“Clegane says he will ride on with you to Riverrun.  I did not realize he had sworn his sword to you,” Ser Harlan said.  

“He hasn't.  Did he say he was in my service?”  Not that Jaime would mind.  There was tension between them, but if the Hound wanted to fight at his side, Jaime would never turn him down.  The man was an incredibly skilled warrior, and his size was surpassed by few in the Seven Kingdoms.

“No, he didn’t say it outright.  I only figured as much since he is coming with you.  Perhaps he’s in the Lady Brienne’s service.”

Now that made Jaime uneasy, and he spoke before he could school his thoughts.

“No, she would have told me.”

Harlan glanced at him with a strange expression, but then he stuffed a spoonful of stew into his mouth and said no more on it.  Jaime quickly changed the subject.

“What do you know of the state of the Twins?” Jaime asked.  It was the key castle, and Jaime knew he must take it or Tyrion’s plan had no chance of working.  The bridge would be crucial to moving troops and supplies in the event the North needed to retreat to the Riverlands.

“It is grim there,” Harlan said and lowered his voice.  “Every able bodied man was killed, some say by blood magic.  This left only the women and children, and they were ripe for the picking.  The Bloody Mummers took advantage of the situation and now hold the castle.”  Harlan’s grey eyes were wide and grave as he said those last words.

Jaime’s heart sank.  The Bloody Mummers were a savage sellsword company known for their brutality.  There was no time for a siege; he would have to attack them head on, no doubt losing many men in the battle.  Unless there was another way.  Perhaps he could infiltrate the castle with a small force and open the gates, just as Tyrion did at Casterly Rock.  Jaime suddenly wished Bronn were here.

“Also, the Clegane would like to see you in the practice yard,” Ser Harlan said with a smile.  “I think he wants to break some more arms.”

 

“Lannister,” the Hound growled when he saw Jaime enter the yard.  Jaime’s boots crunched in the frosty dirt.  The ground was uneven with the frozen footprints of previous fights.  Jaime could almost replay the prior spars in his mind if he looked close enough, a parry here, a lunge there.  And then a large, flat impression left by a body falling into the mud.

“The fuck is that?” the Hound asked as Jaime stepped into the torchlight.  The fire caught on the new steel of his right arm, casting orange flickers across the ground.  He’d had one of the squires put it on after he’d finished eating.

“Something the blacksmith made me,” Jaime replied.  “Perhaps you haven’t heard, but I lost my sword hand,” he said sarcastically.  “Though I’ve been practicing with my left,” he added and locked eyes with the Hound.  “Care to have a go?  Or should we just go drink ourselves senseless?”   _And there I go again._  There was no denying it, he was jealous.

The Hound gave him an unsettling grin and grabbed a pair of blunted swords from the rack.

“Maybe after I bash you around a bit,” he said and twirled the sword once by the hilt, watching it spin.  He tossed the other one to Jaime, and he caught it deftly with his left.

The spar began cordially enough, with each man testing the other’s instincts and footwork.  Blades clinked against one another.  Then Jaime saw an opening and swung for the Hound’s shoulder, but the Hound caught it with his sword just in time and a loud clang echoed around the yard.  The Hound smirked, and then things snowballed.

The Hound proceeded to batter him around the practice yard, while Jaime held his own.  He was significantly stronger, but Jaime was still lighter on his feet.

“You ever going to use that plate on your arm?” the Hound taunted.  To a casual observer, the Hound would appear to have the fight in hand, but Jaime saw his breath puffing fast and hard in the cold air.

“I would, but you seem to be having enough trouble as it is.”

“Fuck you, Kingslayer,” the Hound growled and charged at him with the force of a bull that had spotted a heifer in heat.  Jaime backpedaled and was nearly out of reach again, but his heel caught on a ridge of frozen mud and he fell onto his back.  The Hound bore down on him and swung his sword.  Jaime threw up his right arm and the Hound’s blade crashed into it.  The shockwave reverberated through Jaime’s whole body; surely his arm would be broken.  But it wasn’t.  In fact, after the initial wave, there was no pain at all.

The Hound stepped back then, seemingly satisfied with putting Jaime on his ass.  But then he reached down to help Jaime up, and Jaime nearly laughed when he saw the look of concern in the Hound’s eyes.   _He’s afraid he’s broken me._

“You alright?” the Hound asked.

Jaime nodded and flexed his right arm appreciatively.  “I like this.”

“No better way to test it out,” the Hound said.  “Unless you want me to fetch your lady knight.”

“She’s not _mine_ ,” Jaime muttered.  An awkward silence followed as Jaime tried to look anywhere but at the Hound.  He hung up his blunted blade and then fiddled with the straps of his armor.

Then the Hound spoke.  “You think I want her.”

Jaime turned to protest, but the Hound stopped him.

“Don’t fucking interrupt me.  I enjoy her company and trust her in a fight, but after a woman nearly kills me, I’m not much interested in fucking her.”

“I know the feeling,” Jaime replied.  He would never forget the look in Cersei’s eyes when she nodded for the Mountain to kill him.

“So your pretty sister finally got sick of you.”

“I think it’s more the other way around.”

“I never thought she’d pull her talons out of you,” the Hound added as he hung up his own sword.

“She got what she needed from me,” Jaime replied.   _My seed._

The Hound looked at him, and in that moment Jaime swore the Hound knew what he meant.  “Let’s get a drink.  I think you need one.”

“I would, but I should take some food up to Brienne.”

The Hound grinned.  “Don’t let me get in your way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again so much for reading! Next chapter should be a little longer and will be Jaime, Brienne, and the Hound on the River Road together. Sorry the Bronn/Pod section here is such a little tease, but they will be back in full force shortly :D


	10. The River Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne, Jaime and the Hound head for Riverrun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you Ill_Tempered_Clavier for the beta!!

**The River Road**

 

One week after her arrival at Harrenhal, the maester finally cleared Brienne for travel.  She, Jaime and the Hound would ride for Riverrun, hoping to get there before Cersei discovered the army’s deception.  Just the three of them would ride out, Jaime in plain clothes, in an attempt to perpetuate the ruse a bit longer.  Once Edmure Tully was reinstated as Lord of Riverrun and the castles along the Trident were garrisoned and supplied, the secret would no longer be necessary.  Even if Cersei yet managed to bring the Golden Company to Westeros, she would need to lay siege to nearly a dozen castles which would take an exorbitant amount of time and money.

“My lady, it is under great duress that I discharge you from my care,” the Maester nagged her as she strode down the hall toward the stables.  “I wish you would not ride.”  He was wringing his hands together.  “I did not know you were the Evenstar’s daughter and heir when I spoke earlier.  Should anything happen to you, the Citadel would censure me.  Perhaps even lighten my chain.”

“Maester Waters,” Brienne said as she whirled around to face him.  Gods, he was annoying her, but she schooled her tongue and spoke kindly.  “I have already written to my father.  He knows what has transpired here, and he will be grateful for your service.  Should I fall ill, Ser Jaime will clear your name.”  The Maester was a bastard, one of only a handful of bastards that had been allowed into the Citadel, so she understood he was especially wary.

“It’s not just that,” he said and his grandfatherly face softened.  “You are a remarkable woman, and I would be disheartened should any ill befall you.”

Brienne smiled then. He could have chastised her for taking up the sword in the first place or guilted her about leaving her father, but he didn’t.  “I will be fine, thanks to you.”

The Maester nodded and pressed his lips together.  “My lady,” he whispered.  “Safe travels.”  Then he left her to find her way to the stables.

 

“Well, good morning,” Jaime said when she finally arrived.  He and the Hound were doing a final check of their supplies and saddles.  No stable boys were there to see them off; the fewer people that knew of their plan the better.

“How’s your ass?” the Hound rasped around a mouthful of hard roll.

Jaime looked at her with an obnoxious smirk.  “Yes, how  _ is _ your ass, Lady Brienne?”

“Not your business,” she replied primly, then checked her horse’s straps.  She heard the Hound and Jaime snickering.  She was happy the two of them had bonded while she was laid up in bed, but it was becoming apparent that they loved to pester her.

“What a shame,” Jaime replied with a cocked brow as he swung himself up into the saddle.

Heat flooded her cheeks and she found herself tongue-tied, which only elicited another laugh from the Hound.  This was going to be a bloody long ride.

 

They skirted northeast of Raventree Hall and the Stone Hedge, sleeping outside and keeping off the road when they came across other travelers.  It made the journey slow-going, and by the seventh night, Brienne desperately wanted the bed and hot meal of an inn, but it was too risky.  Should anyone recognize Jaime, even men that were loyal to his generals, it would risk exposing the ruse.

That night, the weather turned.  The Hound knew it when they set up camp for the evening, calling their attention to the western sky.

“That’s a blizzard coming in,” he said.  “I can tell.  I’ve seen clouds like that before.”

_ He’s been beyond the Wall,  _ she reminded herself.  Brienne had been all the way to Castle Black.  She’d seen storms and snow piled as high as a horse, but she’d never seen clouds like these.  They were fluffy white on the horizon, where a few rays of the sun broke through to illuminate them, but then they bloomed up to cover the dome of the sky, dark and ominous.

“I’d risk an inn tonight,” he added.

“We’re half a day’s ride from the Inn of the Kneeling Man,” Brienne replied.  She’d traversed the Riverlands multiple times and had a good understanding of where they were.  They were in the middle of nowhere.

“We won’t make it there, even if we ride hard into the night.  Come on Lannister, let’s get the tarp up.”

The easy conversation between the three of them had died.  The threat of the impending storm, of the unknown, had snatched their glib words from their mouths.  Brienne started a fire and saw to it that they had a good supply of wood to burn through the night. Then she fed and hobbled the horses near the circle of the fire to make sure they stayed warm.  By the time she was finished, the Hound and Jaime had stretched the small tarp between the trunks of three trees and pinned it down at the edges.  It was a makeshift tent that was light to carry and unobtrusive to a passerby’s eye.

Once they had all settled down to eat around the fire, Jaime asked the question that had been on Brienne’s mind for some time.

“What did you see beyond the Wall?”

“I saw the dead walk,” the Hound replied. “I saw the rotten corpse of a bear maul Thoros of Myr to within an inch of his life.  I saw the White Walkers with their army of the dead stretched out as far as the eye could see.  I saw Thoros take his last breath.”  At that particular point, the Hound’s tale ended abruptly.  But watching him stare into the fire, Brienne could tell the story was yet playing on in his mind’s eye.  There was more, she knew.  The battle on the frozen lake, Daenerys and her dragons, but the Hound would say no more. Then he shoved the rest of his bread and cheese into his mouth and stood.

“I’ve got first watch,” he growled then stalked off into the woods.

“He’s a bit testy tonight,” Jaime said and came to sit next to her on the stump she’d claimed.  He nudged his hip into her own and she scooted over to make room for him.

“He doesn’t want to share some bit of his tale,” Brienne said. She held her hands out to the fire.

“How bad do you think this storm will be?” he asked.

“I don’t know.  But I trust his judgement.”

“So do I.”  Jaime leaned his elbows on his knees for a bit, then he left her side to retrieve a flask from their bags.  He sat back down and pulled the top off and took a drink.  Then he handed the skin to her.

“I probably shouldn’t,” Brienne said with little conviction.

“It will keep you warm,” Jaime replied and smiled at her.  His left hand rested on the edge of the stump behind her back as he leaned in to her.  “I will make sure you don’t get as drunk as you were in Darry.”

Brienne scowled.  “For fuck’s sake, I stumbled a bit at the bar.  That’s enough to brand me a drunkard?  Perhaps the Hound had to escort me from the common room and put me to bed as if I were a child,” and then she broke into laughter, unable to take her indignation seriously anymore.  She took a drink from the skin.  The booze instantly warmed her from deep in her belly.

She and Jaime stared at the fire then for a time, soaking in the heat and watching the flames dance.  When the flames began to falter, Jaime tossed more logs on one-handedly, with an ease that she had not seen of him before.  She wanted to compliment him, but she found herself staring at the lines of his face, the stubble of his jaw, the flex of his shoulders and back.  He came to rejoin her and against her better judgement, they continued to sip from the flask into the evening.

They talked about all manner of things, mostly trivial, until Jaime squeezed the last of the liquor from the skin and looked into her eyes.

“Brienne, what is the worst thing you have ever done?”

They’d moved to sit on their bedrolls to keep dry.  The tarp above their heads was heavy with snow.  Another clump fell from the trees above and broke the silence of the winter night with a soft thud.

“You mean in my entire life?” she asked.  Her heart clenched in her chest.  She already knew the answer.

“Yes,” he said.

It was something she had never told anyone.  Saying it out loud would make it more real.  Whether it was the drink or Jaime or a combination of both, she couldn’t say, but she took a deep breath of the crisp air then began to speak.

“I had an older brother,” she began, then stopped as she steadied her voice.  The pines loomed over her beyond the edge of the tarp.  Tall and dark, she felt like they were leaning in to listen.

“Galladon, yes,” Jaime said.  It warmed her heart that Jaime knew his name and it gave her courage to continue.

“He drowned in the ocean.  He was a strong swimmer, but he was caught in a riptide and went under before anyone had a chance to save him.  My father was there, but I wasn’t.  I was in the castle taking lessons with my septa.  I was eight years old at the time.”  The memory of that day still made her sick to her stomach.  Tears pricked at her eyes, but she forced out the last of it.  “That morning, Galladon and I had fought over something that I cannot even remember.  But I told him that I hated him and wished he were dead.  My Septa heard me and scolded me, but I wouldn’t apologize.  She told me my lord father would beat me for my disobedience, but then Galladon drowned and all was forgotten by everyone but me.”  Her eyes welled with tears, pools that threatened to spill down her cheeks.

“I’m sorry, Brienne,” Jaime said.  “You were only a child.  You couldn’t have known.”

She sniffled.  “I know.  But that doesn’t change that those were my last words to him.”

Jaime sighed then asked, “Any other mistakes, Brienne of Tarth?”

“Well, I failed to protect my king and he died in my arms.”  Something else, there must be something else.  Ah, yes.  “And I bit off the Hound’s ear.  A very dishonorable tactic.”

“You realize that those things are not your fault, don’t you?”

“What do you mean?”

“I have no doubt you would have saved Renly if you could have, and as for the Hound,” Jaime glanced over at her with dancing eyes, “He probably considered that foreplay.”

Brienne’s mouth gaped open and she looked at him in admonishment.

“I mean, really, the whole fight you two had was probably just some elaborate mating ritual on his part.”  Jaime grinned at her.  His teeth flashed white in the firelight, and she smiled back.  His happiness was contagious.  But there was one more thing, and she had to say it, even if it hurt.

“I left my father alone on Tarth, without an heir.  I am his only living child.  I should have married and bred, but instead I took up the sword.  I should have been strong enough to withstand the snickers and the insults.”

“Brienne, you are the strongest person I know.”

Silence hung over them.  She wanted to deny it, to refuse the compliment, but the words died on her lips when she saw the way Jaime was looking at her.  Her chin trembled but she pushed the emotion down.

“And you?” she asked.  She thought, or at least she  _ hoped,  _ that she knew his most grievous sins, but she still needed to know, and she also knew that he needed to tell her.

“Well, I think you know the jist of it.”

Brienne gave him a soft smile.  “I know.  I just thought I should ask.”

“I suppose I should give you a brief update,” he sighed and turned to face her.  “In addition to what you already know, I killed Olenna Tyrell and apparently got Cersei with child.”

That last bit stung.  But once the disgust, or perhaps pain, died away, she said, “Olenna was a traitor to the crown… but she would have made a valuable hostage.”

“Her whole family was dead.  And Cersei wanted to have her whipped through the streets.  I gave her a more dignified death.”

Brienne nodded, then steeled her resolve and completely derailed the conversation.  “You are to be a father then?”  She set her face hard and felt some measure of pride at getting the words out of her mouth.

Jaime’s face paled and he looked at her with eyes full of regret.  “Cersei is pregnant, and she would have named me the father to all the kingdom if I had a stayed.  I don’t know how, after all these years since Tommen, but...“ he whispered and trailed off.

Of course he’d been with Cersei since Brienne had seen him last.  It would be naive of her to think otherwise, but it still hurt.  And the timing of it was certainly suspect, but she decided to hold her tongue.

The snow was falling heavy now, and it was as high as her waist beyond the circle of the fire.  The Hound was nowhere to be seen.

“We should get some sleep,” she said and crept further beneath the tarp to curl into the bedroll.  “Next guard duty is mine.”

Jaime nodded and crawled into the furs next to her.  They’d all piled their sleeping blankets together in the hopes that it would keep them warm.  Jaime’s shoulder touched hers as he lay down beside her.  The heat of his body was a welcome warmth and she scooted closer to him.

“Come here,” he murmured and slipped his arm around her waist then pulled her close so that her head rested on his shoulder.  “We’ll freeze to death otherwise.”

She could feel the muscles of his arm flex and his hard belly push against her back as he molded his body to her own.  Her hips nestled into his reflexively, and it felt so good to be close to him that she couldn’t be bothered to be embarrassed about it anymore.  Whatever this was, she wanted it.

“I missed you, Brienne,” he whispered in her ear and she closed her eyes.

 

Some time later, it must have been hours, she was jostled awake by the Hound.

“You’re up for watch,” he said.  When her vision came into focus she saw he was covered in snow, so much so that he looked like a children’s snowman, and she smiled at the thought.  “Unless I’m interrupting something,” he added.

As if on cue, Jaime stirred beside her and burrowed his face into her neck.

“Ah, fuck it.  The snow is as high as my head.  We don’t need guard tonight.  Any stupid cunt that’s out in this weather is of no threat to us.  So, what were you two talking about?”

“Poor decisions… life regrets and the like,” she said.

“Oh, really.”  The Hound climbed beneath the furs on Jaime’s other side and pressed against him, shoulder to shoulder.  Jaime snuffled in his sleep and burrowed deeper into Brienne.  “Well, I’ve got one for you.”  The Hound’s deep voice echoed against the tarp.

“Really?” Brienne asked.  Jaime’s breath was hot on her neck as he slept and the Hound shoved himself in close, with no regard for Jaime cramped between them.

“Yeah.  I threw a stone at some wights beyond the Wall.  I thought it was funny, so I threw another, and that’s when things got ugly...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed, and thank you so much for reading!!


	11. King's Landing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cersei/Qyburn POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit gory and gross, and may contain subject matter that is upsetting for some. And I know Cersei isn’t everyone’s thing! Feel free to skip this chapter. I will put a “too long; didn’t read” summary at the end of it just for plot purposes :) I have a Hound/Brienne/Jaime chapter just about finished to put out too, so I'll be back to the usual POVs soon.
> 
> Thank you ITC for the beta!

**Be sure to read the above note!  Thanks :D**

 

**King's Landing**

 

Cersei stood in Jaime’s quarters watching the snow float down from the grey, sunless sky.  His rooms were sparsely decorated.  Multiple suits of armor stood about the room, empty blackness staring back at her from beneath golden helms.  Jaime had resisted taking the family crest, an heirloom that had hung in their father’s room until the day he was murdered, and after Jaime had let Tyrion go free, she’d stopped pushing him to take it and had claimed it for her own.  Freeing Tyrion was the first aberration in Jaime’s behavior, the first one she’d noticed anyway, but when she thought back she knew she’d been blinded.  She’d misjudged him.  She’d thought he was smart… perhaps not as smart as she, but smart enough to fall in line.

She approached his golden armor and looked it over with sharp eyes.  This one had always been her favorite.  In it, he was her golden lion.  She ran her fingers down the chest plate, feeling the microabrasions that could not be buffed out.  Her son would wear this armor.  He would be the prince, the perfect combination of herself and Jaime. Strong, intelligent, cunning - Tywin Lannister reborn.  Sometimes she thought that Jaime and herself were two halves of a whole.  That they could not live without the other and that they would die together after conquering the world.  Now she knew she was mistaken - Jaime was weak and malformed.  He was as defective as their little brother was, and it wasn’t only the loss of his hand that made him so.

Something had happened to him in the Riverlands.  Some stupid notion had infested his mind, insidious and discrete.  She’d thought it was his stump that repulsed her when he’d first returned, but now she knew it was more than that.  He was changing, slipping away from her.  She’d blame the sow of Tarth for it, but that would be acknowledging that the beastly woman was of any importance.

Now, Jaime was in a cell at Harrenhal.  This pleased her.  However she was displeased with the behavior of Ser Gregor.

“Send for Qyburn,” Cersei commanded to her handmaiden who stood at the door.  The girl had been with her for some time, and she served Cersei well.  “He’s probably in his dungeon doing some depraved thing or another.  Tell him I want to hear his findings on Ser Gregor.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

 

Qyburn puttered in a few minutes later.

“Good morning, Your Grace.  Lovely weather, isn’t it?”

Qyburn had been annoyingly giddy ever since the meeting in the Dragon Pit.  The sight of the undead monster had excited him in ways that Cersei didn’t want to think about.

She spun on her heel to face him.  She wore a Lannister crimson gown, one of her favorites from her pregnancy with Tommen.  Her seamstress had added pads into the shoulders and glossy black detailing to the lions along the bodice.  More fitting of a queen, she thought, and she felt powerful wearing it.

“How is Ser Gregor?”

“He appears to be in perfect working order, Your Grace.”

“That is not possible,” she ground out.  “I gave him a command, and he did not obey it.”

“Perhaps there was some miscommunication.  He requires very clear verbal instruction.  Are you certain you wanted him to act, Your Grace?  You wanted him to kill Ser Jaime?”

“I didn’t want him _killed._  I wanted him detained!”  Cersei wanted to crack her hand across Qyburn’s wrinkled face.  Her fist gripped and ungripped at her side.  She took a breath and tried to calm herself.  It would not be healthy for the babe to get so upset.

“Of course, Your Grace.  I apologize.  I will rerun my tests once more.”

“Good.  Has there been any word from Euron Greyjoy?”

“A raven arrived this morning. His fleet is a day out of Braavos, and the Iron Bank awaits his arrival.  Once the gold is acquired, he will meet General Strickland in Pentos to close the deal.”

Cersei nodded.  Soon, the Golden Company would be hers to command.  And with the Lannister forces and the men of the Reach and the Riverlands, her armies would outnumber the Targaryen bitch with a strength that even two dragons could not counter.  And it was _two_ dragons.  The other had fallen beyond the Wall.  Cersei had been right, and Jaime had been wrong yet again.

“How do you feel today, Your Grace?  Any concerns?”

“None.”  She looked back out the window.  She didn’t need some old man to examine her; she’d carried children before.

“Excellent.  Has the babe quickened yet?”

“Not yet,” she replied and felt a darkness begin to settle around her.  The question enraged her.

“Ah, well any day now.”

“That will be all.  I will be in my rooms,” Cersei replied and Qyburn left her to her thoughts..

 

She slept fitfully that night. Sensations of heat crept up and down her thighs and sweat beaded on her back.  Every time she tossed herself into a new position, she would see Ser Gregor standing at her door, staring at her with those lifeless eyes.  Bloated flesh squelching beneath a black helm.  She swore she could smell him, like death floating on the air, and it make her feel sick.

Finally, she could take it no more and got out of bed to open a window, and that’s when she felt it.  A heat between her legs followed by wetness.  Hot, dripping blood.   _No._  She clutched her gown to her belly as a wave of cramping came over her, followed by more blood that dripped onto the cold stones of the floor.

She hobbled back to her bed to curl up on her side and suddenly a dark shadow fell across her, blocking the light of the candles in the room.  Ser Gregor loomed over her.  She could hear him breathing short and rapid beneath his helm and his eyes were blown wide. And that was when the real fear gripped her, possibly for the first time since her walk through the streets of King’s Landing.   _Oh Gods._

“Ser Gregor, fetch Qyburn immediately,” she commanded, but her voice wavered in her throat.

Ser Gregor just stood there as if he hadn’t heard a word she said.  Then he took one step closer to her and smelled the air, like a bloodhound, and moaned.  His hand reached down to touch the now blood-soaked sheets beneath her and she crawled to the other side of the bed.  He groaned again, and this time there was no mistaking that it was a noise of excitement, of arousal, of bloodlust and hunger.

He grabbed at the sheets and began to pull everything including her towards him.  She scrambled frantically out of the twisted sheets to the opposite side of the bed.   _He’s a monster and I knew it._  Qyburn had dismissed her concerns; it made her angry and ignited a courage in her.  She stood up and squared her shoulders.

“Your Queen commands you to leave.”

He began to walk around the bed to corner her.  Her heart raced and her breath came hard and fast, but she persisted.

“I am the Lioness of Casterly Rock.  I am the daughter of your liege lord.  I am Tywin Lannister’s heir.  You _will_ obey me!”

He paused at the mention of Tywin’s name, and she could see a glint of recognition in his eyes.  Her father had been the only one would could control Ser Gregor Clegane in life, and it appeared that that power still had a hold over him even now.  He stepped back, confused.  Then he turned and mercifully loped out of the room.  Cersei collapsed shaking onto her bed.

“Your Grace!” her handmaiden appeared through the door that adjoined the servant quarters to Cersei’s own rooms.  “Oh gods, my queen.”  The girl began to sob when she saw the blood.

“Send for Qyburn,” Cersei said, then sat down in a chair, letting the blood pool beneath her and run onto the floor.

 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

 

Qyburn awoke to guardsmen banging on his chamber door.  He lived deep in the Red Keep, beneath the surface where the politics and backstabbing occured, deeper even than the Black Cells. He’d made a home for himself in a neglected basement, and when he’d found the door rusted closed in his early explorations of the keep, he’d surmised that no one had been beyond it in at least fifty years.  He’d found some interesting things in here, and with multiple cells and rooms for experimentation, it was perfect for him.  Cersei had not pressed him when he’d declined to move into the Tower of the Hand.

“Lord Hand,” a gruff voice called from beyond the metal door.

“Yes? What is it?” he asked calmly after opening to door to find five Lannister soldiers standing in the cramped hallway.

“There’s been an… accident.”

“Really?  That’s terrible.  What kind of accident?”  Qyburn gave them his most grandfatherly smile.  But in his chest his heart quickened with excitement.  Perhaps there would be a fresh body for him.  Maybe more than one.

“We found a handmaiden dead.  Her head was smashed and her arms pulled out of their sockets.”  The soldier’s face began to turn a pale shade of green.

“I see.”  Qyburn shifted uncomfortably, but kept his voice calm.  “Where is Ser Gregor?”

The gruff-voiced guard pushed his way to the front, anger in his eyes.  “Disappeared.  Your _abomination_ is missing.”   He grabbed Qyburn by the collar, spittle collecting on his lip.  “And this girl’s blood is on your hands!”

“Stand down,” the soldier in charge commanded.  “This is the Lord Hand you’re speaking to.”

The gruff soldier released Qyburn but continued to sneer at him.

 

The soldiers escorted him to the body.  She was well and truly destroyed.  Brain and blood splattered the stone hall, and her arms were thrown a few feet from her torso, ripped out at the shoulder joint.  Qyburn touched the pale white bone that protruded.  Such raw power… it pleased him that Ser Gregor’s reattached hand was working well.  But there were so many secret halls and doorways in the keep that it could take some time to locate him.

“Lord Hand,” a servant came scuttling down the hall, and he was nearly upon them before he saw the gore spread out before them all.  “Oh gods, oh gods,” he moaned and turned away to vomit against the stonework.  He braced a hand on the wall and heaved a few more times as he shuddered.  Finally, he managed to speak.  “The Queen requests your presence.”

 

Cersei sat in a chair near the fire with a fur thrown over her lap.  Her eyes were vacant, defeated, reminiscent of the day she made her walk of shame.  That walk had forged her into something harder and more cruel.  It had been transformative and it was utterly fascinating to Qyburn.  Then he saw the bloodstained bedding.

“I am no longer with child,” Cersei snarled then sipped from her goblet.  Her hands were shaking, probably from the blood loss.

“I will fetch my things to help ease the bleeding, Your Grace.”

“First, you will explain to me why Ser Gregor came after me as if he thought I was Elia Martell, and then went on to murder my handmaiden.”

“Well, Your Grace, perhaps -”

”And don’t tell me some idiotic excuse.”  She cut him off, clearly uninterested in what he had to say.  “I’m no fool. You are losing control of him.”

“It’s possible the smell of blood drove him mad.  Even in life, he had his… proclivities.”

“I want him hunted down and destroyed.  I want you to remain out of my sight until I say otherwise.  I am now the last Lion of Lannister.”  Her eyes were red and he could see a fresh crop of tears pooling in her lids, but her face was hard as stone.

 

Qyburn decided to break his fast in his quarters that day, behind his metal door and out of sight of the Queen.  He’d just tapped into his second soft boiled egg when someone knocked timidly on the door.  He set his fork down and dabbed the corners of his mouth with his napkin before rising to answer it.

“Well, hello,” Qyburn said to the young maid who stood nervously across the threshold.  She had a heap of blankets grasped tightly in her skinny arms.

“M’lord, here are the Queen’s sheets, just as you asked of me,” she squeaked out.  Then she thrust them forward, eager to be rid of the bloody fabric.

“Why, thank you my dear.  Hear you are,” he said and placed a golden dragon in her hand.

She pocketed the gold hastily before flitting off down the torchlit hall and scampering up the spiral staircase.  Qyburn stepped back into his chambers and closed the door.

He spread out the bloodstained linen and began to inspect it, first with a gross assessment, and then once more with an attention to detail.  The blood loss had been significant, there was no question, but after a thorough inspection, he found no remnants of conception.  This was puzzling, because at nearly six moons of pregnancy, there should have been a fully formed babe expelled from the womb.  Even if the Queen was mistaken on her last moonsblood, some evidence of a pregnancy should still have been apparent.

It could only mean one thing.  Her Grace had not been pregnant in the first place.  Perhaps she truly was entering the change - it would explain her irregularity, and he’d suspected it on occasion before.  But he wouldn’t tell her that yet, just as he wouldn’t tell her that Ser Gregor had vanished into the castle walls without a trace.  He preferred to keep his head for the time being.

He pulled up a stool to his workbench and began flipping through an old, musty tome.  Its pages held an extraordinary amount knowledge, more than he could ever hope to harness in his lifetime.  The prejudice of current Westerosi culture prevented it from being fully realized, but he would do his best.  The Queen needed an heir.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary - Cersei is likely in menopause and was never pregnant. Ser Gregor nearly kills her but she invokes her father’s name and that gets him to leave her alone. He does murder her handmaiden and then disappears into the castle. Euron is nearly to Braavos where he will obtain gold from the Iron Bank and then sail for Pentos to seal the deal with the Golden Company. Cersei orders Qyburn to destroy Ser Gregor, but they can't find him. Qyburn is unfazed by all of this and instead starts researching how he can provide Cersei with an heir (most likely in some mad-scientist way lol).
> 
> Thank you for reading, and any comments/critiques are always welcome. This is outside my usual wheelhouse and my first Cersei POV I've ever written :D


	12. The River Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime POV

**The River Road**

 

When Jaime woke the next morning, he found himself buried under two enormous bodies, both of which were snoring. And he was _hot,_ which seemed ridiculous given the amount of snow that had fallen overnight.  He shoved the Hound off first, pushing him to the side roughly, and then he wiggled out from beneath Brienne’s arm and stood up.

The fire still burned and had kept the snow from piling up on top of them and their mounts                                   as they’d slept.  It wasn’t as bitterly cold as it had been before the storm, and with no wind, the day was almost pleasant.  He took a deep breath which lead to a yawn and he stretched his arms over his head.  The horses whickered at him excitedly, no doubt looking for their breakfast.  He thought his own black mare looked happier now that she had some company.

After feeding the horses and stoking the fire, he began to make breakfast.  He melted snow in a pot and then tossed in some oatmeal.  Not the most interesting meal, but he did have a some honey he’d taken from the kitchens at Harrenhal to give it some flavor.  Once the pot was simmering, he left it to cook and went to take a piss.  He amused himself by creating shapes with his stream in the snow.  He was absurdly happy given the current situation, and he was just finishing up a damn near perfect figure eight and wondering what Tyrion would think of it when he heard someone clear their throat behind him.

“Are you fucking _drawing pictures_ with your piss?” the Hound asked.

Jaime shrugged, “I am. And if you tell me you’ve never done it before, you’d be lying.  The world is my tapestry.”  He waved his stump out towards the pristine white snow.

The Hound just shook his head and and proceeded to relieve himself as well.  “If you’re trying to convince me you aren’t the stupidest Lannister, you’re doing a shit job of it.”

Jaime had told the Hound and Brienne about his final conversation with Cersei.  It had been cathartic to say it aloud.  He’d known Brienne would listen, but to his surprise, the Hound had been attentive as well.  The Hound had also wanted to know everything Jaime could tell him about Ser Gregor.

Brienne woke up a short time later and plopped herself down in front of the fire.  Her hair was a mess, she had sleep lines on her face, and she looked grumpy.  She had never been a morning person.  Jaime smiled at her as he handed her a bowl of oatmeal.

“Did you sleep well?”

“Yes, fine,” she rumbled then began shoveling oatmeal into her mouth.

He sat down across the fire from her and tried not to look at her too much.  This was her usual demeanor every morning, and Jaime found it endearing.  She looked thoroughly pissed to be awake, and even the Hound knew she needed an hour or so before she was completely ready to face the day.  They were usually in the saddle by then.  It was just so… cute.   _Gods, I love this._  Jaime gave up the struggle and watched her finish her breakfast.  Fortunately, she was too busy eating to notice.

 

Once they’d packed up camp, they pushed their way out onto the main road where snow was not so deep.  The previous snowfall had been packed down by travelers, so it was only the fresh snow that had accumulated. But it still stood as high as their horses’ knees.

“What’s the name your cunt son gave that sword again?” the Hound asked.  He truly pulled no punches, and Jaime actually found it was somewhat refreshing.  It didn’t seem like he would need to hide from the Hound.  The man was unfazed by the things Jaime had done that would repulse most people.

“Widow’s Wail,” Jaime replied.  “I know, it’s horrible.”

“It’s truly one of the worst names I’ve ever heard,” Brienne added.

“Well, we all don’t have your talent for naming swords,” Jaime said and cast her a little smirk.  To his delight, she blushed and looked down at the pommel of her saddle.

Truth be told, he’d been thinking about a new name for his sword for some time.  Then, when he’d woken in the middle of this past night, it had come to him.

Brienne had thrown her arm over his chest in her sleep, and she had been making little noises under her breath right in his ear.  He’d thought it an exquisite torture, but it had given him some time to think on a new name for Widow’s Wail.  First he’d come up with Maiden’s Sigh, and as his arousal had grown, Maiden’s Moan.  But then he’d turned to look at her face, pure and blissful in sleep, and he’d realized for all her power, she still had a gentle heart.

_Maidenheart._  He’d settled on it, but he couldn’t say it out loud, not yet.  He didn’t want to make her uncomfortable.  Jaime had never had to woo a woman himself, but he knew from Tyrion in their youth that there was such a thing as coming on too strong.

“Well,” the Hound said with a booming voice as he unsheathed his sword and brandished it around mockingly.  “This here is Cuntslayer!”

“Sandor!” Brienne scolded him.

“What, you don’t like it?” he said and growled out a bawdy laugh.

“It has a double meaning as well.  How poetic.  I didn’t know you had it in you, Hound,” Jaime said with a grin.  Brienne cast him a sour look.  She was barely even scandalized by their talk anymore.

“Are we pressing on to Riverrun today?” he asked.  They could reach the castle in a day’s ride if they pushed their mounts.  Since the weather had cleared, it seemed the best course.  He had no desire to face Edmure Tully again, but the sooner he got it over with the better.  Then they could focus on the Twins.

“I suppose we should,” Brienne replied.  “Lady Sansa is awaiting a raven from Lord Edmure, to prove that you stay true to your word.”

Jaime rolled his eyes.  Of course she was.  He supposed couldn’t blame Sansa for doubting him, after all that had befallen her family at the hands of his.  He looked down at his one remaining hand. He could still feel the tiny chest of Bran Stark beneath his palm, the boy’s heart fluttering like a fawn’s beneath bony ribs.  It seemed so surreal now.

“You two, making your plans,” the Hound interrupted.  He was riding ahead, and he turned back in his saddle to look at them.  “I thought you both realized that we’ll be lucky to make it as far as the Kneeling Man.”

“What do you mean?” Brienne asked.

“Well, that storm’s not over.  We’re just in the eye.”

As if on cue, the wind whipped up and blew snow into Jaime’s face.  The sky steadily darkened, and all three of them pulled up the hoods of their cloaks.  Jaime had only heard of hurricanes having eyes, not blizzards.  But the Hound had been beyond the Wall and would know the best of any of them.   _And how many blizzards have I faced?_

“Check the map.  We need to be sure of our position before we lose visibility,” the Hound said and reined his horse back to fall in next to them.  Brienne pulled the map from her saddle bag as the skies opened and heavy flakes began to fall.

“I’d say we’re a morning’s ride from the inn,” Jaime said after evaluating the map.

“Alright, whatever you do, don’t lose the road,” the Hound warned, and they pressed on into the snow.

 

Conditions worsened.  Snow whipped sideways across their path, and soon they had to ride in single file with a rope between them to keep from losing one other in the fury of white.  Jaime tucked his head to his chest and pulled his cloak tighter.  Even his horse had her big head dropped down.  They must be close to the inn, perhaps just a mile or so more.

“Travelers!” a muffled voice called through the storm.  Jaime could barely see the rump of Brienne’s horse in front of him, let alone whoever was calling out to them.  Then a torch broke through the whiteout, and a man on the back of a huge plow horse appeared.

“Where are you headed?” the man yelled.

“The Kneeling Man,” the Hound replied.

“Well, you’re here,” the man said.  “Come.”

They followed in a line behind the big plow horse.  More torchlight broke through the storm and then Inn of the Kneeling Man emerged out of the swirling whiteness.  They would have ridden right past it, missing it like a ship in the night, if this man hadn’t happened upon them.

The man lead them into the stables. As the heavy barn doors rolled closed behind them, the howling of the wind subsided and it was as if they were in a different world.  It was warm and inviting, filled with yellow firelight.  Jaime could hear the wickering of horses, and the faint music of the inn. The stables smelled of fresh hay with an accent of horse, but it was a welcome change from what they’d been in just moments before.

“We are lucky you found us. Thank you,” Brienne said properly as she dismounted and handed her horse to a stableboy.

“Winter is here.  We need to look after one another now.”  He tipped his hooded head to Brienne, and then one of the stable boys let him back out into the storm.  The man was out there solely to rescue those lost in the snow, Jaime realized.  The selflessness of the act took him by surprise.

Brienne gave the stable boys some coin, and they entered the inn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a bunch more Brienne/Jaime/Hound coming up. I have been messing around with POV shifts and where to start and end chapters. Thank you once again to ITC for the beta - this chapter needed some sprucing up lol. Also, I apologize if this sword name has been used before - I googled and searched it on AO3 and it didn't pop up, but that doesn't mean anything, so let me know if I need to give credit somewhere. It's a pretty common theme :D  
> I hope you enjoyed, and thanks for reading :D


	13. The Inn of the Kneeling Man

**The Inn of the Kneeling Man**

 

Never before had Brienne be so relieved to find an inn.  Truth be told, the blizzard put her ill at ease.  She’d heard enough tales in the North of people losing their way in a storm.  Their frozen bodies would be found weeks, sometimes months later.  It was said that there was no pain at the end, just a euphoric sense of peace, but she wasn’t willing to find out for herself.

She went to open the door that adjoined the stables to the inn and was surprised by its weight.  She had to use two hands to pull it open, and then she saw why.  The inside was plated with steel and two huge wooden cross bars leaned against the wall.   _ Strange _ .  The hairs on the back of her neck stood up, and she looked back at Jaime.

“Since when do inns need steel doors?” he said with a furrowed brow.

A huge man in head-to-toe boiled leather abruptly filled the doorway.

“Since the Riverlands went to shit,” he growled from behind a bushy, white beard.  He gripped the hilt of the sword at his hip, leather creaking.  Standing nearly as tall as Brienne, his eyes were clear blue and sharp as he scanned first her and then Jaime over.  Her hand instinctively began to inch toward where Oathkeeper hung at her hip beneath her cloak.

“I’ll need your names and town of origin.”

“Go the fuck in, already,” the Hound barked out as he finally came to join them at the door.  He pushed to the front then stopped when he saw the man blocking their way.

“I know you,” the man said as a look of recognition bloomed on his face.  Then it hardened  “You still working for Lannister gold?”

“Fuck no,” the Hound replied.  Hidden behind him, Jaime pulled a face and Brienne gave him a warning look.

“And who are these two?” the man asked.

“My sister and her husband.  A farmer,” the Hound answered, and she saw Jaime’s mouth drop open.  Whether at being named her husband or a farmer she wasn’t sure.

“Your sister, who would be a _ highborn lady _ , married a farmer?”  The man cocked his head to the side.

The Hound shrugged.  “She’s a bastard of my father’s.”

The man took a breath, and after a long moment, stepped back from the door to allow them in.  “I’ll buy it.  She’s big enough to be a Clegane.  Pay the innkeep in advance for food and board.  Weapons stay in your room.  My friends and I were hired to keep the peace.”  He gestured to a round table near the door where six other men sat.  Sellswords, all of them, each armed and armored.  “And keep it we shall.”

 

Once they were past the door, Brienne was pleasantly surprised.  The common room was well-lit and warmed by a roaring fire in a fieldstone hearth on the southern wall, and even the innkeep was pleasant when she paid him for their room.  Delicious scents wafted on the air: seasoned meat, fresh bread, and something sweet, perhaps roasted apples.  A few long tables sat in the middle of the room, and benches lined the walls to give the most seating possible.  And it was needed.  The room was packed with people of every sort.  A group of old women sat next to the fire warming their bones while at the table next to them was a young mother with a babe at her breast and two more pulling on her skirts.  Her husband sipped ale next to her, oblivious to her plight.  It seemed like an entire town was stuffed into this one building.

“This is rather nice, don’t you think Wife?” Jaime said.  “We should have brought the children.”

“Oh shut up,” Brienne replied.  Gods, he was annoying, and he never stopped talking,  _ ever _ .  She was starting to get a little too warm and sweat prickled on her back.  Her riding clothes were much too heavy for a packed inn.  She needed to change out of them.  And she wasn’t thrilled about disarming, but she didn’t see that they had much of a choice.  It was either stay here or get buried in a blizzard.  “I’m going to put my things away.”

“Alright, here take this too,” the Hound said.  He unloaded his own bag on her and walked over to the bar without a second thought.   _ What a gentleman.   _ But at least he treated her as an equal.

“If you’re going to be carrying anyone’s bag, it really should be your husband’s,” Jaime said.

Brienne scoffed.  “I can carry all of them.”  Then she forcefully grabbed Jaime’s bag from him.  “Get me some food,” she commanded then climbed up the stairs, making a point of carrying all the bags with one arm.

She turned left at the top of the steps and walked down a dimly lit hallway to the last door on the right as the innkeep had instructed.  The tarnished metal key clicked in the lock and the door swung open.

The room was small with only one bed, but the innkeep had told her as much.  Snow covered the window along the outer wall, and red coals still glowed in the hearth from the previous night’s fire.  She used a taper from the hall to light a candle then closed the door to change.  She selected a light shirt and pants, but she was still warm so she rolled the sleeves up to her elbows.  Then she slid their bags under the bed but hid their swords on the rafter overhead where they would be reasonably hidden but easy enough to get to if they needed them.

When she returned to the common room, she saw that the Hound had staked his claim at the bar.  He’d grabbed the last stool, and Jaime stood behind him.  Jaime waved her over.

“I can’t carry this all by myself,” he said when she got close.  He held one mug of beer in his hand, and on the bartop was another full mug and plate of cheese, bread and butter.

“They’ve got Ashemark Amber,” the Hound said with childlike excitement.  “You’ll like it,” he added.

Brienne took a sip of the copper hued brew.  “It’s very good,” she said.  “Light and flavorful.”

The Hound seemed satisfied with her evaluation and nodded.  Then she took the plate and she and Jaime wove their way through the crowd and found a spot on one of the benches along the wall with room for two.  Even so, it was tight fit and their shoulders bumped against one another.

They chatted occasionally as they ate, keeping it light and generic so as not to reveal their identities to those around them.  Soon they’d finished off the plate of food and emptied their mugs.  A fiddler struck up a tune, and they had to lean in close to hear one another.  After a time, Brienne felt Jaime’s hand slip behind her back, placing his palm on the bench behind her to prop himself up.  She felt relaxed from her drink and blessedly warm.  And once they ran out of benign subject matter, he began to tease her.

“You know, Wife, I’m a lucky man to have you,” he said and gave her a lopsided smile.  His eyes twinkled beneath his brows, and she knew him well enough to know he was just getting started.  “All the other farmers were jealous when you agreed to marry me.”  His arm behind her inched up to encircle her waist.

“Oh bloody hells, you’re a fool.”

“A fool in love,” Jaime crooned into her ear.  The drink was getting to him too, obviously.

“Stop it,” she replied, but she couldn’t keep from smiling.

“You’re strong enough to help me in the fields by day and then warm my bed at night.”  He leaned in close to whisper that last part, his beard tickling her ear.  Her belly tightened.  “And you’ve given me ten strapping sons,” he added.

“That’s a ridiculous number of children,” she muttered.

“I know.  We didn’t mean to have so many, but the need to lay together was too strong.  We couldn’t control ourselves.”  His hand at her back moved and his thumb brushed up under the hem of her shirt to touch her bare skin, and she nearly jumped out of her skin.

“Ser Jaime Lannister!” she hissed under her breath. She turned and slapped her palm against his chest.  But he took that opportunity to pull her closer and trap her arm against him with the crook of his elbow.  He was strong, stronger than she would have guessed, and it was clear that he’d rebuilt the muscle he’d lost during their last trip through the Riverlands, and then some.  Even his right handless arm was a force to be reckoned with, and he’d just about pulled her into his lap.

“What?” he asked with feigned innocence.  “Don’t make me wrestle my own wife for a scrap of affection. You’ll embarrass me in front of the other farmers.”

_ Challenge accepted, Ser. _

She jabbed her free hand into his ribs and dug her fingers in.  He flinched away from her, bumping the gentleman sitting next to him in the process.  The man cast them a sour look.

“My apologies,” Jaime said to him and turned back to her with a smirk.  “You’re going to get me in trouble.”

“You started it,” she replied.

Then the Hound pushed through the growing crowd and thunked a fresh mug of beer before each of them.  “Pale ale from Old Town.  More bitter than what you’ve had, but man up and drink it,” he said, addressing her.  “It will grow on you.”

Then his brow furrowed, a bit unevenly due to the scar across one side of his face, and he put his palms down on the tabletop.  The wood creaked beneath his weight as he leaned close to both of them.  “And whatever the fuck you two are doing, stop it or take it upstairs.  You’re drawing attention to yourselves.”

She felt as if she were a child being scolded by her septa.  Even Jaime cast his eyes down at the table.  He looked like a naughty little boy.  She tried to hold back a snicker at the thought but failed.  The Hound’s face hardened.

“We will,” Jaime said, sounding as sincere as possible.  It wasn’t clear whether he meant he would leave her alone or that they would be taking their grappling upstairs.  She knew which she preferred.  It had been some time since she’d had a proper tussle.

Then, two people entered the inn.  They were covered in snow, and with their hoods up she could not even say whether they were men or women.  After a short discussion with the sellsword guarding the door, one of them shook hands with him like they were old friends and the sellsword stepped aside.  With her curiosity piqued, Brienne leaned around the Hound’s hulking body to watch as they pushed back their hoods.  Then her heart leapt and she rose to her feet with a gasp.

“Podrick!” she yelled across the noisy inn.

When Podrick saw her, his whole face lit up and he smiled a huge, tight lipped grin.  Bronn was with him.  The older man looked tired and weary, and his pale, squinted eyes were searching the inn.  She felt Jaime stand up next to her, and only then, once Bronn had laid eyes upon Jaime, did Bronn relax and take a deep breath.  Bronn had been searching for Jaime, she realized, and it made her wonder if Bronn was really only in it for the gold anymore.  She was thankful Bronn had taken care of Podrick, whatever the reason, and as he and Podrick made their way over, relief washed over her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here they are! Next chapter will be more of them, I think Jaime POV. Thanks for reading, I really appreciate it :)
> 
> Thank you ITC!


	14. The Inn of the Kneeling Man (part two)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime then Pod POV

**The Inn of the Kneeling Man (part two)**

 

“Well, look at you two, thick as thieves,” Bronn said as he sauntered up to Jaime and Brienne.  But Jaime had seen the desperation in Bronn’s eyes as he’d scanned the inn for him, and he felt a pang of guilt for it. Apparently more people were concerned about his welfare than he would have ever guessed.  But Bronn was all smarm and smirks now.

“Gods, am I glad to see you,” Jaime said.  He’d missed having Bronn at his side, and if anyone could help him with the situation at Twins, it was Bronn.  Tyrion had told him the story of Bronn’s confidence that he could breech the impregnable Eyrie, though Bronn had said it in a much cruder manner than that.  He felt a sudden, unexpected surge of love for the man, and he pulled Bronn into a brotherly hug.

It took a moment for Bronn to hug back, but when he did, he crushed Jaime in a strong embrace.  “I thought I’d lost you,” Bronn muttered.

“Sorry, but you’ll have to deal with me a bit longer,” Jaime said with a smile as the men broke their embrace.

They sat down together at the table.  Brienne was already talking earnestly with Podrick at the other end.  Jaime updated Bronn on what had happened since the Dragon Pit.  Bronn listened with his usual nonchalance.

“Where have you two been?” Jaime asked him once he was finished with his tale.

“Well, we went to Harrenhal to save your ass.  But when we got there we found out that someone beat us to it.” Bronn paused and glanced at Brienne, then back to Jaime with quirked eyebrow.  “Risked my neck only to find some halfwit farmer in a cell pretending to be you.  Anyway, they thought I was working for Cersei at first.  Once I convinced them otherwise—”

“How did you do that?” Jaime interrupted.

“Well… I’m in your little brother’s employ now.  I had papers.  You fancy folk love your papers and your seals.”

“Ah,” Jaime said.  He’d wondered if Bronn was working for Tyrion ever since he’d arranged the meeting between him and his brother in the bowels of the Red Keep.

“So after that, we tracked you from Harrenhal to here.”

“Did you have any trouble leaving King’s Landing?”

Bronn was about to shrug off the question when Pod jumped in.

“Queen Cersei sent soldiers after us.  We took care of them easy enough, but then the Mountain showed up.  He nearly killed Ser Bronn.”

“Woulda had me too, except for my boy Pod here,” Bronn said lightly and slapped Pod’s back.  He was smiling but his eyes were dark.  He unconsciously reach to rub at his neck, and Jaime saw old yellow bruising there, faded and barely visible in the dim light of the inn.  Then Bronn noticed him staring and quickly pulled his hand away with a look that let Jaime know Bronn did not want him to acknowledge it.

“Well, I owe you a drink at the very least,” Jaime said softly, and Bronn managed give him a little smile.

 

They drank and ate the night away.  Even the Hound joined them eventually, taking a seat at the end of the table near Brienne and Podrick.  There was tension between Bronn and Clegane, no doubt, though Jaime couldn’t figure out the root of it.  But with Brienne at his side and drink warming his belly, he decided not to worry about it.

Eventually, Bronn stood and sauntered over, motioning for Podrick to slide down the bench to let him sit next to the Hound.  Jaime leaned back in his own seat and watched with curiosity.  Any anxiety he would have had about it was quashed by the mug of ale before him.  His fifth, if he was keeping count correctly.

“Nice to see that the drink we shared in King’s Landing wasn’t our last,” Bronn said and flagged down the barmaid to order the two of them another mug of the pale ale the Hound had been drinking.  Bronn could appear crass but he was very observant, and the interaction seemed to soften the Hound a bit.  They began to discuss strategies for taking the Twins, the Hound’s voice, rumbling from deep in his chest, contrasting sharply with Bronn’s own Flea Bottom lilt.

“Well, I think I’m going to bed.  Enjoy your evening,” Brienne said a short time later.  She put a few coins down on the table to pay for a portion of their drinks and food.

“Sleep well.  I’ll try not to keep your husband out too late.  No promises on whether he will be too drunk to perform his martial duties for you though,” Bronn said.  To Jaime’s surprise, the Hound laughed at his joke.  Brienne rolled her eyes, and Podrick looked positively scandalized.  Then she slipped into the crowd and headed for the stairs.

Bronn refilled Jaime’s mug, but he barely got half of it down before his eyelids began to grow heavy.  He was too old for this, and truth be told he had never been much of a late night drinker even in his youth.  That was more Tyrion’s area of expertise.

Jaime stood up, and Bronn immediately groaned.  “We’re just getting started,” he said.

“I know.  But from the looks of it, we are going to be stuck here at least another night or two.  That snow isn’t letting up.”

“Aye, fine.  Go to bed.  Maybe you should start taking a naps like an old man so you can stay up with me tomorrow.”

Jaime smiled, accepting the jibe as a token of affection.  Then he put a few coins of his own on the tabletop and went upstairs, wondering if Brienne would already be asleep.

 

The room was dimly light by a few candles on a little table in the corner near the window.  A fresh fire snapped and crackled in the hearth, casting dancing orange light across the floor.  Brienne was already in bed with her back to the door, and he thought she was sleeping at first until she rolled over to see who it was.

“Oh, it’s you,” she muttered..

“Don’t be too excited,” he replied.  “Gods, it’s bloody hot in here.”

“I thought it best to start a fire in case the winds shift overnight.  I don’t want to wake up half frozen.”

“Not with me by your side, you wouldn’t,” Jaime replied and stripped off his shirt in one smooth motion, then tossed it onto the three legged stool next to the table.  He kicked his boots off next and flung them haphazardly towards the corner of the room.

“You realize there are no maids here to clean up after you,” Brienne murmured from beneath the blankets.

“The only thing I  _ know _ is that you are in my spot.”

“What do you mean?” she asked dubiously.

“I need to sleep in my usual spot.  The Hound on my left and you on my right.  That’s how we’ve been doing it this whole time.”   _ Am I trying to pick a fight?  _  He wasn’t sure.

“Oh stop it.  I’m already comfortable and I’ve warmed this spot up.”

“I need to.  What if I get confused in the night and cuddle the Hound instead of you?”

“Perhaps you should,” she retorted.

“Don’t make me move you,” Jaime said as he strode over to the bed.

“I dare you to try, Ser.”

_ Alright, that’s it. _  He knew what she wanted, and he was going to give it to her.

  
  


\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

  
  


“Podrick Payne, the Maiden’s gift to all women,” Ser Bronn said and raised his mug.  Pod glanced about nervously, hoping no one was listening.  It was embarrassing, and he was coming to wish that he’d never told Ser Bronn and Lord Tyrion about the whores in King’s Landing refusing to take his coin.

“So, what are we drinking next?  Clegane?  You seem to know a bit about the beers of the land.  What do you recommend?”

“Have you had the amber?”

“I have, two mugs full.”  Bronn’s eyes twinkled and he kicked his boots up onto the tabletop, crossing one ankle over the other.

“Maybe a stout should be next, then,” the Hound pondered aloud.  Podrick had never seen the Hound so deep in thought as when he was trying to select his next ale.

Then they heard a thud from above, followed by second thump, more loud than the first.  The Hound’s brow furrowed haphazardly behind his curtain of stringy hair.  Ser Bronn’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline and a grin spread across his face.

“What have we here?” Ser Bronn crowed as he leaned forward on the table.  “I’d say that’s coming from your room, judging by the location.”  Ser Bronn lowered his voice and glanced between Pod and the Hound.  “Let’s have us a little wager.  Winner drinks free the rest of the night.”

“What are we betting on, Ser?” Pod asked.  He was just beginning to feel warm from his ale, and he couldn’t for the life of him figure out what Ser Bronn was talking about

“What are they doing up there? Fuckin’ or fightin’?” Ser Bronn replied.  “I know what my money’s on.  Fuckin’ for sure.  What about you, Clegane?”

The Hound glowered at Ser Bronn over the rim of his mug.  It seemed to Podrick that the Hound didn’t much care for Bronn’s personality.  Finally he grumbled out a response.  “Fighting.”

“Pod?  And save me the squire bullshit.  Ain’t no harm in a friendly wager.”

Pod opened his mouth but no sound came out.  He knew his lady had feelings for Ser Jaime, but the thought of betting on her sent a hot wave of shame through him.  Bronn tilted his head to the side as he watched his inner struggle play out.

“Well, if you’re not betting, then you’ve got no stake in the outcome.  Go on up there and see what there doing so Clegane and I can settle our bet.”

“But, but I can’t do that,” Pod stammered.

“Sure you can.  Just put your ear to the door.  They won’t even know you’re there.”

Pod looked to the Hound for help, but he only shrugged his hulking shoulders and took another drink.

“Jaime led us on a wild fucking goosechase across Westeros, Pod.  I was nearly killed by  _ his _ fucking brother,” Ser Bronn whispered and pointed a finger at the Hound.  “We got out of Harrenhal by the skin of our teeth and then almost froze to death in this blizzard. Go. We won’t talk about it after tonight.”

“Go on, boy.  I want my free drinks at the expense of this cunt bastard,” the Hound growled as he jerked his head toward Ser Bronn.

“Alright,” Pod said and pushed his chair back from the table.  He didn’t see what choice he had left, so he took his mug with him and tiptoed up the steps.  Maybe he could hide around the corner at the top of the stairs for a few minutes, then go back down and pretend he’d listened at the door.  Make up a story about Ser Jaime knocking over a chair or something.  That should work, he thought.

But when he did round the corner, he saw firelight streaming out of their room.  The door must be wide open, he thought with a frown.  Then he heard grunting and the scuffle of feet on floorboards.  Dancing shadows broke up the light projected onto the hallway wall.  What was going on?  A twinge of panic shot up his spine.  What if Ser Jaime had been discovered?

Pod crept down the hallway and peeked around the corner of the doorframe.  He was unprepared for what he saw.

Ser Jaime and Lady Brienne stood in the center of the room, hunched over and circling one another.  Ser Jaime had no shirt on, and he had a wild, almost feral look in his eyes.   Pod’s lady was no better.  Though she did have a shirt on, she had her pant legs rolled up to her knees and her collar was undone and hanging precariously open.  But neither of them seemed to notice the other’s state of undress.  Brienne swung her arm out, like a bear swatting its paw, but Jaime stepped out of the tackle and grinned at her, his white teeth flashing in the firelight.

“I’ve told you before not to grimace before you strike, wench!” Jaime taunted then wiped the sweat from his brow.  _  Wench?? _  Had Ser Jaime just called Lady Brienne a  _ wench? _  But Lady Brienne seemed too focused to let his taunting distract her.  Her own piercing blue eyes burned in their sockets, and her blonde hair stood in disarray.  Then Ser Jaime lunged at her and they grappled with one another.  The sound of their sweat-soaked skin slapping together, the raw grunting and groaning… it was too much for Pod to process.  He stood dumbfounded in the doorway and brought his mug to his numb lips as he watched them crash to the floor, still tussling for the upper hand.  Then Brienne caught sight of him out of the corner of her eye.

“Podrick,” she said in her commanding tone, and Ser Jaime rolled halfway off her to look up at him as well.

“I… I’m sorry m’lady.  I’ll go back downstairs.”  Pod was blushing and so flustered he could barely speak.  They weren’t fucking, but it was nearly as bad, maybe even worse.

“No, stay.  You can call the match,” Lady Brienne said.

“Yes, and watch your lady close, she’s cheating,” Ser Jaime added as he got back to his feet. Lady Brienne scoffed as they took up their stances again. Then they both looked at him expectantly.

“Um… go ahead,” Pod mumbled, still too confused to say much else.

They circled one another again.  Ser Jaime grabbed at Lady Brienne’s wrist but she wriggled it free, then took the opportunity to catch him around the chest from behind.  Ser Jaime’s belly muscles rippled as he tried in vain to pull her off. She pushed his head down towards his knees but he managed to hook his foot around her ankle.  They both tumbled down, landing on the floor in a tangle of glistening, naked limbs.

Lady Brienne flipped Ser Jaime onto his back, straddling her long legs across his but she couldn’t get his arms pinned down.  He freed one leg and bent his knee, managing to keep his shoulders off the ground.  Then he let out a low groan of exertion and thrust his hips up into her to roll her onto her back.

“Yield, you stubborn woman,” Jaime said with a menacing grin as he straddled across her belly and pinned one of her arms with his thigh.

“Not yet,” Lady Brienne hissed then grunted as she bucked up against him, frantically trying to throw him off.  Ser Jaime’s pants were halfway down his ass by now, but they were still on enough for Pod to be fairly certain they weren’t actually fucking.  But he’d never be able to unsee this. Not even if he lived one hundred years.  He took a long drink of his ale and stared.

Finally Ser Jaime grabbed Lady Brienne’s free hand and pinned it over her head.  Their faces were inches apart, chests heaving, and then her shoulders hit the ground and she was down.

“That’s match,” Pod squeaked, his voice cracking.

Ser Jaime rolled off her and collapsed on his back.  “Oh gods, that was good, wench.  You almost had me,” he panted.

Lady Brienne was beet-red from where her shirt lay damp across her chest all the way up to her sweat-soaked hair.  “Thank you, Podrick.  You can go now,” she puffed once she’d caught her breath enough to speak.

“Yes, m’lady,” Pod backed out of the room in a daze until his back hit the wall, and that jarred him out of his stupor enough to run downstairs.

 

“Well?” Bronn asked as soon as he saw him.

Pod sat down, drained his mug, and then looked from Bronn to the Hound and then back again.

“What is it, boy?” the Hound growled, then flagged down a barmaid for more ale.

“They’re fuckin’ aren’t they?” Bronn said excitedly.  “Time to pay up, Clegane.”

“No.  They weren’t… doing that.  Not really.”

“What do you mean ‘Not really’?” the Hound asked, his interest apparently piqued for the first time.  His eyes were more glassy and his words slower than when Pod had left the table.

“Well, they were wrestling.”

“Clothed?” the Hound prodded.

“Yes, mostly.”

The Hound slammed his massive first onto the tabletop and barked out a victory laugh.  “Looks like I’m drinking for free tonight!”  He grinned at Bronn. “And I’ve got quite a thirst.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There should be some actual plot next chapter :D I hope you enjoyed, and thanks for reading. TY so much ITC for the beta - it reads much better now. Also... roqueamadi - your Brome is leaking again lol.


	15. The Inn of the Kneeling Man (part three) / Winterfell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hound then Sansa then Hound POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an extra long chapter instead of two, but it made the most sense to post it all as one :D
> 
> Thank you ITC so much, you reined in some crazy wine-induced prose in this one lol. Sorry if you need eyebleach :D

**The Inn of the Kneeling Man (part three)**

 

Sandor was drinking for free, but the good mood that put him in could only withstand so much.  With Brienne gone, he found his new companions were beginning to grate on him. Podrick Payne had the face of a boy on the body of a man, but he still seemed a squire, simpering and “M’ladying” left and right.  The boy had killed Ser Mandon Moore of the Kingsguard at the Battle of the Blackwater, and yet here he was mooning over Bronn.

And Bronn.  Bronn of fucking  _ somewhere _ \- he didn’t know the man’s family name.  What he did know was that Bronn liked to talk... a lot.  At first, Sandor had been surprised to find he could tolerate the man.  But as the evening wore on, and Bronn kept talking and japing and flirting with the barmaids, the sellsword’s smarmy fucking laugh and stupid fucking smile began to wear on him.  He wished Brienne, or even Jaime, was still down here.

Then the short woman from the kitchens that seemed to be running the place came out from behind the bar.  She had flour on her face and as she swept her black hair from her forehead, she locked eyes on him and smiled.  Now what did she want? She’d been pestering him all night to help her move tables and ovens and any other heavy shit she could find.  Usually being the biggest man in the room was a plus, but not in this case.

“Ah, here comes your girl again,” Bronn whispered excitedly and adjusted himself in his chair so he could watch the interaction.  Sandor could feel Pod’s eyes on him as well, but the lad stayed silent.

“How is the chicken?” the woman asked as she slid in close to him.  She’d made it especially for him; the rest of the inn was eating ham tonight.  What was her name? Bonny? Bridget?

“It’s fine.  What do you want now?” he asked around a mouthful of food.

She was unfazed by his abrupt words and hadn’t given his scarred face a second look, which was odd but refreshing.  “Would you be a dear and help me with the kettle?” She ran her hand across Sandor’s shoulders, her warm fingers brushing the skin at the base of his neck.  He squirmed away from her and set his mug down.

“I suppose,” he grumbled as she took his arm and pulled him towards the hearth.  He could hear Bronn snickering behind him.

“Could you pull it off the fire for me?” she asked.  He couldn’t help but notice the sheen of sweat on her chest, her apron straining to hold back her full tits.  She barely crested his elbow in height, and she smelled of fresh bread. She must be baking the next day’s loaves back in the kitchen.

“There,” he grumbled as he pulled the kettle off with ease.  It was full to the brim with boiling liquid with some vegetables floating around in it.

“Thank you,” she said and gave him a soft smile.  She averted her eyes and looked down at his arm, then ran her hand lightly along it, curling her fingers tentatively around his elbow.  “I’ll be going to bed soon, once this last pan is out of the oven. My room is in the back, just around the corner. I’ll leave the door cracked if you’d...” and she trailed off, cheeks flushed.

Sandor froze, and he found that his throat was suddenly dry.  He swallowed and managed to get out a few words. “I’m not tired.”  She must be a whore disguised as a kitchen woman.  _ Now I’ve seen it all. _

“Oh.”  She nodded.  “Of course, I’m sorry,” she whispered and scurried back into the kitchen.  

Sandor returned to the table to find Bronn staring at him with his mouth hanging open.

“The fuck is the matter with you?” Bronn asked incredulously.  “That’s a woman who just invited you back to her bed, you do realize, don’t you?”

“If I wanted to pay for it, I’d go to a whorehouse,” Sandor replied.  The woman could have been more discreet about propositioning him, but he supposed she was desperate for gold what with winter here.

“She’s not a whore, you stupid cunt!” Bronn whispered.  “She wants you to warm her bed tonight. Fucked if I know why.”

From down the hall, a door slammed with a resounding crack.  Bronn winced and looked at him. “Well, she  _ did _ want to fuck you, anyway.  Probably not anymore now that she heard you call her a whore.”

That couldn’t be possible.  Bronn was fucking with him. Sandor frowned into his mug and once Bronn was distracted by something shiny, Sandor leaned over and muttered to Pod.  “I’m going out to check on the horses. You know what that kitchen woman’s name is?”

“It’s Fiona,” he whispered back.

_ Huh, I was close anyway. _

 

Sandor went out the side door and into the stables.  The group of sellswords guarding the place only nodded to him and then returned to their dice.  They hadn’t given their group a second thought since Bronn had arrived.

Torches lit the stable’s four corners.  Most of the horses had bowed their heads to rest, and a few were laying in the hay fast asleep.  The stable boys huddled in the corner around a little stove as they passed a skin of something among them.  Snow was falling again in large, soft flakes, but the boys had shoveled a clearing out around the stables and front door of the inn.  No wonder they were tired.

Sandor’s horse was on her feet, and he went over to her and ran his hand down her spine.  She tossed her tail and swung her big head to him, and he slipped her a carrot he’d pocketed during dinner.  “There’s a good girl.”

Brienne’s horse was one of the few actually laying down in a deep sleep.  It was tough work carrying Brienne of fucking Tarth around, and she rode her horse hard.

A gentle breeze blew in from the south, cold but refreshingly so, and lacking the bite of a northern wind.  He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, watching it crystalize before his eyes in a puff of steam. Then a sound caught his ear.  It was faint and seemed to pair itself in harmony with the wind, but as he strained his ears, there was no mistaking it. A child’s laughter, rolling in on the breeze and teasing the limits of his hearing.

“Who's there?” he growled into the night.

The wind stopped.  Then another laugh, and this time it was clear enough for him to pinpoint the direction from which it came.  He grabbed a torch off the wall. Some stupid child must have wandered from the inn, thinking it would be fun to play in the snow.  And there would be some wailing mother crying over her lost child in the morning if he didn’t go out there and find the them.

“Come child, it’s not safe out here,” Sandor yelled.  He trudged through the snow which was waist deep in the middle of the road.  A cluster of dark pines loomed on the opposite side of the River Road across from the inn, and he heard another laugh come from within.  He crossed into the forest and it immediately became easier to walk with most of the snow still caught on the canopy of tree branches above him.  The torch in his hand seemed to burn brighter, and although there was no wind in here, the flame danced and spiraled.

He was aware that he was straying further and further from the inn, but he kept his bearings.  The child could not have gone that far, and the laughing was getting louder. It sounded like the giggling of a girl, or perhaps a young boy.  Then he felt the darkness tighten in around him, squeezing at his chest. Fear struck his heart like an icepick and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up.  Something was out here, something unnatural. An absurd part of his brain momentarily wondered if it was the ghost of the butcher’s boy, come back to serve justice upon him.

Then from out of the blackness between the trees stepped a monster.  It stood as big as a plow horse, with thick grey fur, a white face and black lips curled up into a snarl.  Its teeth were like yellow daggers, and its breath puffed out before it like a smoke from a dragon’s maw. It was a direwolf.  Fucking hells. It was a direwolf, and all he had was a torch.

Then the beast growled and sprang forward, punching into his chest so hard that he thought his lungs had collapsed beneath his ribs and knocking him back into a snowbank.  The torch flew from his hand into the snow, guttered and went out.

The huge head of the direwolf loomed over him as it pressed him back into the snow.  He gasped a wheezing breath and put his hands up in an attempt to push the beast off him.  Fruitless, he knew, but he had no weapon. Sword and dagger were locked up back in the room at the inn.  Then he saw that the wolf was in fact a female, and her teats hung heavy off her belly, like she had just whelped.  She must have pups nearby, he realized. He’d angered a mother direwolf—he was a dead man.

She snapped her teeth at his face, and he squinted his eyes closed, resigned to his fate.  Her jaws would close around his head soon, and all he could hope for was a quick death. But he waited and the bite never came, so he pried one eye open and saw the she-wolf smiling down at him in that particular way that dogs do.  Her cold, black nose snuffled at his face, touching his scar, and it sent a shiver through him. Then she licked at the stump of his ear, the one that Brienne had ripped off. Her hot, wet tongue lapped at him, wetting his hair and sending hot, rank dog breath across his face.  Then she sprang off him and trotted back into the woods, and he found himself alone in the darkness.

 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

 

The mood was tense at Winterfell.  And interestingly, not because Jon had bent the knee to Daenerys Targaryen.  No, in fact the scrutinous eyes of the northern lords and the knights of the Vale were turned upon the Stark sisters.  Apparently, some of them thought Sansa and Arya were not sound of mind. Sansa herself could admit that perhaps she could have conducted herself differently in regards to the execution of Littlefinger.  Although no one mourned his death, slitting a man’s throat in the middle of the Great Hall was not the way of the North. Neither was feeding a man to his dogs nor poisoning all the adult males of House Frey under their own roof.  That claim was still unsubstantiated, but rumor was running rampant.

Sansa had appeased the lords by appointing what amounted to a small council to assist her in making further decisions.  The north needed to stand united, so she was willing to bend to some of their demands.

Maester Wolkan had evaluated both she and Arya at her own request.  He said they were both suffering from the after effects of trauma. They were losing touch with reality and becoming apathetic to the emotions of others as well as to their own.  The diagnosis should have frightened her, but it didn’t, and maybe that in and of itself was proof that was he spoke was true. The Maester had suggested that they start with rebuilding their relationship with one other.  He’d advised sharing a room so they could begin and end the day together. Sansa was exhausted once she finally climbed beneath the furs, but sleep would evade her, as it did every night, until her sister came to sleep beside her.

Arya finally crept into bed an hour later.  She smelled like sweat and the outdoors, and Sansa knew she had just come from the practice yard.  Sansa missed Brienne, the ever present stalwart protector. But the Wall had fallen, and Lady Brienne was on her way to free her Uncle Edmure and secure the Riverlands.  Sansa knew she might find herself retreating there soon, and as much as she wanted Brienne at her side, she knew her current mission was more important.

“How was the yard?” Sansa asked as Arya nestled into her shoulder.  It was strange feeling her sister’s hard little body pressed against her own.  It had been so long since she’d felt the affection of another person, let alone slept in the same bed as someone she did not hate.

“Fun,” she replied simply.

They lay in silence for a time, and then Arya spoke again.  “I can’t wait to see the Imp again.”

“Arya, you shouldn’t call him that.  You’re not a child anymore.”

“I remember the day King Robert came here like it was yesterday,” she continued.  “Queen Cersei and her long, golden hair. The Kingslayer and his white cloak. But all I wanted to do was gawk at their little brother.”  Arya sighed. “That was the first time that I felt truly unimportant, that Winterfell was not the center of the world.”

“It was strange to see Father kneel to another man,” Sansa said.  “Our lord father was the most powerful man in Westeros as far as I was concerned.  King’s Landing and King Robert were a distant dream. Gods, I was so excited. I was such a stupid little girl.”  It turned her stomach to recall how she’d simpered before Cersei, how she’d mooned after Prince Joffrey.

“You’re not the one who smacked Joffrey with a stick.”  Arya shifted next to her and she felt the outline a dagger at her hip.  Her little sister would not be caught unarmed even in bed.  _ Your sister’s a killer.   _ The Hound’s voice suddenly rasped in her mind.

“He deserved it,” Sansa answered.

“I’m sorry,” Arya whispered into her shoulder.  She sounded as if she were holding back tears. “I’m sorry about Lady.  She was such a good girl.”

Sansa tried to swallow down the lump in her throat, but failed, and let out a gasping sniffle as tears pooled in her own eyes.  She’d wanted to say goodbye to Lady, but she’d been too upset to do it. She should have pet her and told her she was a good girl one last time.  Had Lady been scared at the end? No, she wouldn’t have seen it coming; her father would have swung true. “I’m sorry, too,” she said and pulled her sister close.

After a time, Arya spoke again.  “You know, I met a man of the Night’s Watch who was a lot like Father.  His name was Yoren. He took me from King’s Landing after Father died; he was there collecting recruits for the Night’s Watch from the dungeons.  He was going to return me to Winterfell. But the Gold Cloaks caught us on the road and demanded one of the recruits back. It would have been an easy thing to do, to turn over one boy, but Yoren wouldn’t.  The boy belonged to the Watch, he said, and the Crown had no say over him anymore. They killed him for it.”

“That’s awful,” Sansa whispered.  Tears ran freely now, down her cheeks and into her sister’s mop of brown hair.  She held Arya close, relishing in the feel of her sister’s heartbeat thudding against her own chest, of her warm breath and her own hot tears.  The ice around her heart melted just a little, just as it had when she’d first seen Jon again and had flung herself into his arms.

 

Later that night, Sansa woke to Arya tossing and turning beside her.  She sat up and rubbed her eyes, then looked down at her little sister.  Arya was dreaming, her eyes flitting back and forth beneath closed lids.  Sansa smoothed Arya’s brown hair away from her face and smiled. Whatever Arya was dreaming about, it was making her giggle in her sleep.

 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

 

Sandor rolled off his back and staggered to his feet.  His chest was on fire, every breath sending a wave of pain through him.  His ribs where bruised and a few were probably broken from the direwolf’s initial charge.  He could feel hot blood mixing with slick saliva on his face and neck. She must have scratched him somewhere too.  But he wasn’t dead, nor were his intestines hanging out of his belly, and he was thankful for that. Now to figure out where the bloody inn was.

He traced his footsteps as far back as he could in the sliver of moonlight that shone through a gap in the branches overhead.  But once he stepped into thick trees, he couldn’t see anything.  _ Don’t panic, you can’t have gone that far. _  Maybe the stable boys would hear him if they weren’t passed out from their drink yet.

“Hello!” he bellowed into the night, in the direction of the inn.  “Boys, I’ve lost my torch!” Only silence answered him.

_ Fuck. _

He knelt down and took his gloves off so he could feel the snow, trying to find the imprints of his footsteps by touch.  It would work, but it would take awhile.

It seemed an hour had passed and he felt like he’d gone about ten feet, his hands frozen into numbness, a familiar voice called out from a distance.  It was Bronn. He was looking for him, Sandor realized with surprise. He’d figured Bronn would be balls deep in some serving girl by now.

He yelled back to him, and Bronn’s voice guided him to the open road.  The sellsword stood at the edge of the trees and spun to face him when Sandor popped out from between the trunks a short distance down the road.

“The fuck were you doing in there?” Bronn asked.  He didn’t even try to disguise the concern in his voice.

“Taking a shit,” Sandor replied.  “Got turned around in the woods.”

Bronn studied him, taking note of his rumpled hair and bloodied shoulder.  “That must have been some shit.”

 

Sandor fumbled with the knob of the room he was sharing with Brienne and Jaime.  His head swam and he felt hot and lightheaded, though he didn’t know why. He should still be cold if anything.  Then the urge to look into the flames hit him like a ton of bricks, his knees buckled and he stumbled through the door.

The fire was low in the hearth, a candle burned on the small table in the corner, and he noticed Jaime’s clothes and boots strewn haphazardly around the room.  Interesting. Then he looked to the bed and couldn’t help but quirk an eyebrow. The two of them were balled up in the blankets, foreheads pressed together, and Jaime had his arm around her.

He was just about to back out of the room when Brienne sat up suddenly in bed.

“Sandor!” she hissed.  He thought she was mad that he had interrupted them at first, but then she went on.  “Where have you been? I’ve been worried sick about you. What happened?

_ You don’t look it,  _ he thought with a smirk.  Her hair was soft and curling around her face, her lips red and swollen, skin pink as if she’d just been properly ravished.  And her shirt hung open at the collar, the soft swell of her little teats apparent beneath the whispy fabric. He could just imagine right where her soft, pink nipples would be, dangerously close to being exposed.  His cock stirred.  _ What the fuck? _  Since when did Brienne of Tarth look like this?  Apparently only the Kingslayer held the key to bringing out this side of her.

“Sandor?” she prompted, brows raised in annoyance at his lack of explanation.

Gods, now she sounded like his mother, and as quick as it had perked up, his cock wilted back between his legs.  “Drank too much, tripped over some firewood outside while I was checking on the horses.”

Then Jaime grumbled in his sleep and tightened his hold around her waist.  Brienne looked horrified as if she had just realized the predicament he’d caught her in.  Jaime nuzzled his face into her side, oblivious to her plight, and his lone hand slid around her back and beneath her shirt.  The fucking Kingslayer was in love with her, Sandor realized, though the stupid fuck had yet to realize it.

“I’ll see you at breakfast,” he muttered and closed the door.  Perhaps he should have lost that bet with Bronn after all.

He couldn’t say for certain why he’d lied to Brienne about what had happened to him.  Perhaps it was out of fear that word would spread. If the sellswords heard of a direwolf prowling around the inn, they would hunt her, and she had pups to care for.  She could have killed him, but she didn’t. The least he could do was return the favor.

He knocked on the door of the room he thought was Fiona’s. He wasn’t sure what he was doing, but he needed a place to sleep for the night, and he sure as the seven hells wasn’t sleeping in his room with Brienne and Jaime.  He heard soft footsteps approach the other side of the door and then it cracked open a bit. Fiona’s brown eyes, so dark they were the color of freshly turned earth, regarded him with distaste. Until she noticed his injuries.

“What’s happened to you?” she said, distress tugging at her features as she swung the door wide.  She wore only her shift that hung loose and long down to her ankles. She stepped back from the door and pulled him inside.

“I fell,” he said simply.  She guided him to sit on her bed; the feel of her warm hand on his own made his skin tingle.

“Sit,” she commanded.  Then she gathered her washbasin and a cloth and began cleaning him up.  He removed his leather jerkin at her request. Under her ministrations, his injuries didn’t seem to hurt as much anymore.

“These look like claw marks,” she commented as she cleaned the bloody wound at his shoulder.  He just grunted in reply. Her face was so close as she inspected the wound, he could see the fine lines around her eyes and the freckles scattered across her forehead.  And although she’d just worked a hard day in the kitchens, she still managed to smell good, like a flower or something.

“I’m sorry,” he said abruptly.  She pretended not to hear him, so he grabbed her wrist.  That got her attention, and she upon his scarred face without flinching away.  “I’m sorry I thought you were a whore. I’m not used to being around women.” What the hells was he even saying?  He sounded like a fool in his own ears.

But her face softened and she reached up to graze her fingers across his cheek.  Then she leaned forward and touched her lips to his, and he froze. She pulled back to look at him, to gage his reaction, glossy black hair falling around her shoulders.  He found he couldn’t speak.

“That was forward of me,” she whispered and looked away from him.

“No, don’t stop,” he managed to croak out and pulled her back to him.  And then she was in his lap and his hands were in her hair, their lips seeking each other’s hungrily.  Her night dress rode up around her hips as she ground down against him, and he slipped his tongue into her mouth.  She tugged at the hem of his shirt and he helped her remove it then kicked off his boots 

Her bed was soft and smelled like her, he noticed as he laid back and pulled her with him.  Her hands roamed his chest and arms. She squeezed his shoulders and biceps, massaging them with her callused hands.  Her grip was strong and rough, her shoulders broad and her belly hard beneath his own roaming hands. This was not the body of a highborn lady or a well-kept whore.  She was small, but capable, and she needed to be in order to earn her keep at the inn.

Then her hands went to his waist and she tugged at his pants.  He lifted his hips and she divested him of his bottoms then sat back on his thighs and stared.

He was hard and ready, and she took him in her hands and began to stroke him, eyes wide as if she were touching some great treasure.  Whore or not, she knew her way around a dick. A dark thought momentarily crept into his mind, and he wondered if Bronn had hired the woman and this was all some big jape.  But when he reached for the hem of her shift, she paused and suddenly looked nervous before slowly raising her arms over her head. He flung the shift off her and saw immediately why she’d been hesitant.

Thick, scarred flesh covered one side of her abdomen, from her hip bone all the way up to the underside of one of her heavy tits.  The scarring was so severe that it pulled at the skin of her breast and left them to hang lopsided, one sitting higher than the other.  He wanted to reach out and touch her there, but stopped himself. He knew how it felt to be stared at. He knew what it felt like when someone touched his own scar; it produced a strange, unnerving numbness.  

“My husband threw boiling water on me,” she whispered, answering the question they both had been asked a million times.  He clenched his jaw and an explosion of anger burst in his chest.

“I’ll kill him,” he growled.  And he would, slowly and painfully.

“There’s no need.  I’m already a widow.”  She said it like it was an accomplishment, and he wondered how she’d gone about the deed.

“Good,” he said and watched as she raised her hips and then lowered herself down onto him.  He gripped the base of his cock to help guide it in. Soft whimpers and gasps escaped her as she took in his length and then she let out a satisfied sigh once he was fully sheathed in her.

“I’m sorry, it’s been some time since I’ve been with a man,” she said huskily and then she started to move.  She was so tight around him that he knew it was true. Her hips rolled, her tits bouncing every time he thrust up to meet her.  Her eyes were blown with need, and she looked at him the whole time, her gaze never wavering, never breaking off. Then she began to touch herself and, fuck, she was beautiful.  His balls tightened and he came with a ragged moan, and she followed him over the edge moments later, panting and whining out her climax.

He pulled her down into his arms and kissed her again in a dazed and unfamiliar way.  The whores he’d been with never stuck around - the moment he’d finish they would slide out of the bed and pad out of the room.  Fiona raised her hips and he slid out of her, and she tutted a sigh into his neck at the loss of him within her, then she laid her head on his chest and molded her body to his.

The fire snapped and crackled in the hearth, and he relaxed his head into the pillow, relishing in the feeling of her soft cheek upon his chest.  She fell asleep not long after, but he remained awake. He watched the fire lick up into the chimney, the flames and the smoke tumbling together. He let his eyes relax and they began to take on shapes, as clouds in the sky would.  Two direwolf pups wrestled together, one red and one black, playing against the backdrop of the grey slate stone of the hearth.

They woke in the middle of the night, and he took her again.  This time she lay beneath him and clutched at his back as he drove into her.  He captured her lips as he felt her cunt clench around him and he finished deep inside her.  They slept again, her naked body and damp skin pressed against him and her face nestled into his neck.  It seemed just his luck that he’d found her only to have to leave her in the morning. It was time for him to go north.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, I very much appreciate it! I know there was just a little tease of J/B in here, but next chapter should be Brienne POV of the next morning. They didn't kiss or "get down" off camera, so don't worry, its just the Hound's interpretation. And Sandor got some, so there's that haha. I will update tags to reflect the random pairing here.


	16. The Inn of the Kneeling Man (part four)

**The Inn of the Kneeling Man (part four)**

 

After Sandor left, Brienne allowed herself to be swallowed back up by the bed, the blankets, and Jaime.  He was half-asleep, as was she, but she didn’t push him away. They were together now, but what would tomorrow bring?  

He pulled her against his bare chest and she had to swallow down a gasp as her breasts brushed against him with only the thin fabric of her shirt between them.  His hand had slipped into her shirt at some point as well, and his deft fingers played along her spine, roaming up between her shoulders and then dipping low to graze along the waist of her pants. For a man with only one hand, he was certainly managing to cover a lot of territory.  His beard tickled against her collarbone where his face nuzzled into her, and she tentatively put her own arm around his hips and tugged. He murmured some little noise of contentment, his lips moving against her skin. Gods, she wanted him, more than she had even imagined, but she was so warm and comfortable that it wasn’t long before sleep took her again.

 

Brienne woke the next day alone, not unusual since Jaime was an early riser and it was already late in the morning.  She rolled into the pillow and inhaled his scent. The blankets were still warm where he’d laid, so he must have just gotten up.  Her eyes closed as she replayed the night before, the feel of him against her, his lips, his hand. Then she sighed, remembering something else.   _ Sandor. _  What had become of him?  She rolled herself out of bed and rubbed her face, then groggily headed downstairs.

The aroma of sizzling bacon and bubbling oats filled the common room and her stomach grumbled.  The tables were about half-full, mostly with families and older folk. Those that had imbibed the night before were still in bed--the smart ones anyway.  She saw Jaime sitting at a table with Bronn and Pod. When he caught her eye, an ache bloomed in her belly and she had to clench her jaw to keep from wilting right there.  Nothing had actually happened last night, but they’d been closer than they’d ever been before, and though she didn’t understand it, she felt like they’d crossed some point of no return.

“Good morning, m’lady,” Pod said politely as she approached the table.

“Ah, here’s my wrestling partner now,” Jaime said.  “You’re not still sore from losing, are you?” He gave her an antagonistic smile.  Whatever feelings she’d been having were quickly replaced by a familiar irritation, much easier to navigate that what had been flitting around in her head moments ago.  This was comfortable and something she could handle.

“That’s alright, m’lady,” Bronn said.  He looked like a new man, blue eyes sparkling and his face, which had been sallow and haggard only the day before, was fresh and glowing.  She wondered if this had been the first good night of sleep he’d had since leaving the capitol, since he’d lost Jaime. The man loved his women.  Brienne knew this by both Bronn’s reputation and by the way he’d flirted with the serving girls last night, even bouncing a few of them on his knee and stealing a kiss here and there, but he loved Jaime too.  Brienne smiled at Bronn, a genuine grin, and he quirked a confused brow back at her.

“What are you so happy about?  You got your ass handed to you, and you lost me a bet on top of it,” Bronn said.

“You bet on me to win the match?” Brienne asked.  She was flattered Bronn had picked her to best Jaime.

Bronn shrugged.  “Sort of,” he answered.  Pod looked down at the table, blushing furiously.  “Anyway, the Hound is looking for you. He’s in the stables.  Says he’s leaving.”

 

Sandor stood next to his black mare.  He was securing a large bag onto his saddle, something new, she noticed and she wondered what it was for.  He looked up when he heard her step down the wooden stairs and into the hay strewn across the dirt floor.

“There you are,” he said.  “Can I have one of your saddlebags?”  He didn’t even mention the fact that he was leaving, which made her mad.  As if she wouldn’t care.

“You're welcome to it,” she snipped.  “I hear you are leaving us? Where do you plan on going and why?”

He cleared his throat.  “North. I’ve got something for the Starks.”

“The Starks?” she asked incredulously.  “What could you possibly have that they need?  You barely  _ have _ anything.”  That last bit came out wrong, but she was annoyed and she could hear it in her own voice.  So be it; he was being a fool. They could really use his help taking the Twins.

He glowered at her from beneath his scraggly hair, silently, as if he were weighing his options.  “Come here,” he said finally. “And keep your mouth shut.” He opened the large saddlebag and she approached, suddenly tentative.  Then she peeked into the bag.

“What the bloody hells,” she murmured.  Three balls of fur lay in the bottom of the bag, one red, one black, and one slate grey.  They looked like pups barely whelped, but they were big. “Are those direwolves?” They all seemed to be content, sleeping and occasionally twitching their large paws as if chasing something in a dream. 

“They are.  I saw them in the flames,” he said.  “Well, I saw two of them anyway, the third was there, but he matched the brick of the hearth so I didn’t notice him.”

“You didn’t steal them away from their mother, did you?”

“No, she gave them to me.  I think it’s Arya’s wolf. She sent it away the same night that I killed her bloody butcher’s boy.  I can’t remember what she called it.”

“Nymeria,” Brienne replied.  She’d thought the name very fitting.  Brienne herself had been fascinated by the history of Nymeria and the Rhoynar.  “So you’re taking them to Winterfell?” There was a pup for each of the surviving Stark children, the trueborn ones anyway.  Jon Snow still had his direwolf at his side, the albino giant, Ghost.

As a highborn lady, she’d been taught since the day she could remember that it was important to be trueborn, to not get a bastard in her belly, to keep her virtue intact.  Not that her septa thought she was at any particular risk of losing her maidenhead. But now Brienne found that she didn’t much care about any of that. She’d seen bastards that were more honorable than any trueborn son and lowborn peasants braver than any knight.

Brienne gave Sandor one of her saddlebags and after he’d secured it and stuffed a few waterskins into it, he turned to face her.

“Have a safe journey,” Brienne said.  She looked over his face, the wrinkles of his scar, the dark brown eyes that had seemed so menacing to her upon their first meeting but were now soulful, soft pools.  She would miss him, but she had to believe she would see him again, even if it was on the final battlefield.

“You too,” he said.  He looked down as if searching for words, then added, “I’d pick you to fight at my side over any man in that inn.”

Brienne pressed her lips together as a sudden surge of emotion came over her.  She could only nod in return.

“I’ll send a raven from Winterfell, if the castle’s still there,” he said.

“Alright,” she replied, and then she couldn’t stop herself and she pulled him into a tight bear hug.  Her own long arms could barely reach all the way around his huge shoulders. After a moment of letting his own arms hang at his sides, he hugged her back, gently at first, but soon she was crushed against his chest.

When she stepped back, their eyes met and they smiled at one another.  Then Brienne nodded and turned to walk back into the inn, leaving Sandor to his final preparations.  On the way through the door, she had to turn to the side to let one of the kitchen women through. She was short and womanly in shape, and Brienne looked down on the top of her head as she sidled past.  She had glossy black hair, beautiful, if a bit disheveled from sleep.

The kitchen woman walked over to Sandor and they began talking quietly to one another, and Brienne suddenly felt as if she were intruding on a private moment.  She went inside but couldn’t stop herself from peeking out a window at them. The little woman gave Sandor a few loaves of fresh bread wrapped in cloth, and then Brienne’s eyes went wide as she saw Sandor tenderly cup the woman’s face and give her a chaste kiss.  It was the kind of kiss a knight would give his lady in a story before he road off to war. Then the woman hugged him and put her head against his chest, and Sandor stroked her hair. Brienne was transfixed, and she felt a strange flutter in her belly.

“What are you doing?” Jaime asked.  He’d come up behind her without her even noticing, and at the sound of his voice she nearly jumped out of her skin and ended up banging her forehead against the dirty window pane.

“Nothing,” she stammered and turned to face him.  She noticed he held a bowl of steaming oatmeal in his hand, honey drizzled over the top.

“I grabbed you some breakfast before it was all gone.  Bronn and Pod are packing up the room. I said we’d get the horses ready.”  The snow had abated and they would ride for Riverrun today

“Thank you,” she said and took the bowl from him.

“I’m sorry about last night,” he blurted out, then peeked up at her from beneath his unruly hair.  Still gold, but laced with silver. “My hand has a mind of its own sometimes.”

_ Oh gods, we’re going to talk about it. _  Her heart hammered in her chest.  “It’s alright, you were half-asleep.  I’m sure it’s difficult… being alone.”   _ Without her.  Without beautiful Cersei _ .  She wanted to say it but the words stuck in her throat.

Jaime smiled a strange little grin.  “I’m not lonely, not in the slightest.  I’m quite happy, actually. Happier than I’ve been in a long time.”  Her back was still against the window, and Jaime made no move to let her escape.  Her brain was exploding and her body was screaming.  _ He’s happy with me.   _ Moved by his words, she reached out to cup his jaw, his rugged beard tickling her palm, just as she’d seen Sandor do with his kitchen woman moments before, but in this scenario she had no idea who was the knight and who was the lady.  They’d rescued each other in turn. Jaime relished in her touch, something like relief in his eyes, then she saw him look at her mouth and press his own lips together.

“I’d like to kiss you,” Jaime whispered as he leaned close, his breath on her skin.

She nodded, and then he pressed his mouth to hers.  His lips were soft and gentle, and she felt the raw relief of her heart opening, finally relaxing.  But at the same time the pang of need deep in her belly coiled up even tighter, and it made her lightheaded.

He pulled back from her.  “Thank you,  _ Lady Brienne _ ,” he teased, but she could tell he was shaken too.  “Shall we ready the horses?”

Brienne nodded, not quite able to speak yet, and as she followed Jaime to the door, she saw Sandor’s kitchen woman looking at her, smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you ITC for the beta!
> 
> So, they are finally leaving the inn, lol. Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed :D Also, Sandor isn't leaving the story, he's just got some stuff to do, so if you are enjoying his POVs, don't worry, there will be more mixed in.


	17. The River Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime POV then a smaller section of Bronn POV :D
> 
> Thank you, thank you Ill_Tempered_Clavier for the beta!!

**The River Road**

 

The four of them set out for Riverrun around midday.  The roads had cleared more than anyone could have hoped for and the wind was mild and from the south, though the sun remained hidden behind an overcast sky.  If they made decent time, they would arrive at Riverrun in two days. Birds chirped in the trees, and Jaime rode next to Bronn while Brienne and Pod brought up the rear.  Jaime sat back and enjoyed the ride as Bronn talked his ear off about whatever came to his mind, and Jaime could almost pretend that they were not on their way to free a man that hated him with every fiber of his being.  Until Bronn brought it up.

“So, you looking forward to seeing your old friend Edmure?”  Bronn shifted in the saddle to glance at him.

“I’m sure he will be elated to see me,” Jaime replied, his mood turning dark.

“Tell me again why we are setting him free?  I saw plenty of high-ranking Lannister men at Harrenhal who could take command of Riverrun.  Men loyal to you.”

“The Tullys have been Lords Paramount of the Riverlands since the Conquest,” Jaime said.  “This land has been ravaged by war, looted and burned. The people need someone they can trust, a familiar name. Both the lesser houses and the smallfolk trust Edmure.  You know he let the smallfolk into the castle when the War of the Five Kings began? Perhaps not the most strategic move, but I don’t need him to be strategic, I need him to bring stability.  The North may be forced to retreat here.”

“Aye, and I think that will be happening sooner than later,” Bronn conceded.  “He’s just such a twat.”

Jaime smirked.  Leave it to Bronn to accurately sum up Edmure Tully in one word.  Jaime just needed Edmure to agree to the plan, but as of their last communication, Ser Harlan had not yet located Roslin Frey or Edmure’s son.  They should have been in Lannisport, but it seemed they never made it. Perhaps they were held up at a keep along the way and then never completed their journey due to the storming of Casterly Rock.  He couldn’t shake the thought, however, that he already knew where they were. Walder Frey probably never sent them, and kept them at the Twins. That would be a unfortunate if it were true. Edmure’s wife and heir being held captive by the Bloody Mummers wouldn’t do much to endear Jaime to him.

Jaime turned back in his saddle to take a peek at Brienne.  They hadn’t talked at all since he’d kissed her--Bronn and Pod had joined them in the stables only minutes after.  She and Pod were a bit behind them, too far for Jaime to hear what they were talking about, but Brienne looked at him, meeting his eyes.  Good, at least Jaime hadn’t scared the piss out of her. He gave her a little smile, and then she smiled back. He even saw a flash of teeth before she finally blushed and looked down at the pommel of her saddle.  Pod was also looking at him, but he didn’t smile.

 

They made camp once the wind began to bite at their faces, well after what could have been considered nightfall.  They happened upon a game trail that cut sharply off the River Road and twisted into a thicket of pines. Though they’d seen only a few other travelers, one group had prompted Bronn to mutter to Jaime “I don’t like the looks of those boys.”  So they would not take any chances tonight and sleep in paired shifts. Much to Jaime’s disappointment, Pod paired up with Brienne. The lad was used to traveling with her, and he genuinely cared for her, so Jaime decided he couldn’t be too miffed.

They ate some bread and cheese then made a fire as Pod and Brienne slept.  They would each get three hours of sleep at best, and Jaime was exhausted by the time Bronn went to wake Pod and Brienne for their shift.  The furs were already warmed up when Jaime climbed in, an advantage to having first watch.

“Just like Dorne,” Jaime muttered.  Bronn’s shoulder bumped into his own as he lay down next to him.  Bronn was still an enigma to him. The man was a lethal with a sword or dagger or probably anything thing else he could get his hands on  Only chance had brought him into Tyrion’s life. He’d  _ saved _ Tyrion’s life, and from the sounds of it, he could have done it with one hand tied behind his back.  Bronn could have run with his pouch of gold when Daenerys Targaryen had descended upon the Blackwater Rush, but he hadn’t.  “You know you’re the only living man to have shot a dragon,” Jaime said, just realizing it himself.

“And look at all the good it’s done me.  I won’t be in any songs, I guarantee that, but they are already working on yours.  In the taverns and the encampments, the minstrels are plucking their harp strings, singing about brave Ser Jaime,” Bronn muttered and turned his tan face to look at him.  How was the man still tan when the sun hadn’t shown itself properly in nearly a month? Perhaps his ancestors were from Dorne or someplace south, across the Narrow Sea.

“I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you,” Jaime replied, and he saw Bronn’s jaw working, his lips pursed.  “I’m lucky you're a strong swimmer,” he added lightly to break the tension.

“Yeah, well maybe someday you can return the favor,” Bronn replied then rolled away from him, but not far enough to break their contact.

Jaime closed his eyes and listened to Bronn’s breathing slow as he fell asleep, to Brienne’s boots crunch across the ground, to Pod “m’lady”-ing her, and he felt an ease come over him, the likes of which he hadn’t felt in a long time, perhaps since before the Mad King had put that white cloak across his shoulders.

 

The next morning, Jaime woke to a booted toe nudging his shoulder.  He cracked an eye open and found Brienne staring down at him. She held two swords in her hands.

“Time to practice,” she said.  Pod was starting breakfast near the fire and Bronn was still asleep.  Jaime felt a tingle run down his spine--they would be relatively alone for the first time since they’d left the inn.

“Of course,” Jaime said and scrambled to his feet.  He ran a hand through his hair and then across his beard in an effort to straighten it.  Brienne seemed not to notice as she led him to a clearing nearby. She held Maidenheart and Oathkeeper.  She wouldn’t do him the slight of sparring with tourney swords. He realized then that she didn’t yet know the name he’d bestowed upon his sword, and the only chance he had at beating her was to get her flustered, so this seemed like the perfect time.

“Thank you for bringing Maidenheart to me,” Jaime said casually as he took his sword from her.  He’d put on the plated arm apparatus that had been made at Harrenhal for him, and he flexed it once to test it.

Brienne tilted her head slightly as she took a few paces and turned to face him.  “I’m sorry, what?” She had her warface on, and Jaime felt his own blood begin to surge.  This was going to be good.

“Oh, didn’t I tell you? I renamed my sword.  Maidenheart.” He paused for a moment, then gave her a devilish grin.  “I named it after Sansa Stark.”

Brienne ran her tongue across her teeth, mouth closed, as if she could taste blood in the water.  “Oh really? What a lovely tribute to Lady Catelyn’s daughter.” She pulled Oathkeeper from its scabbard.  “Very fitting as I actually named my sword after Arya Stark.”

Jaime grinned and bit his lower lip.  Fuck, she was going to have a go with him.  “How  _ exactly _ is that a reference to Arya Stark again?  Sorry, I seem to have forgotten.” Jaime began to circle around her, and she matched him step for step.

Brienne hesitated then, just for a moment.  Her wit wasn’t as fast as his, but her sword was faster.  “Never mind that,” she replied then lunged. He blocked her just as she was beginning to pull up in case he was going to miss it.  But then she launched into a flurry of strikes, gentle enough but quick, and he parried them but was forced to step back. Her cheeks were already red and her hair mussed, and he could only imagine the way her muscled body was moving beneath her furs.  His cock twitched. Shit, he needed to get back on the offensive.

“I have it on good authority that you kissed some man back at the inn,” he drawled.  “How was it? Did that do anything for you? Could he be who you named your sword for?”

Brienne’s eyes widened, pale blue and shocked.  “I don’t know what you're talking about,  _ ser _ .”

“Oh, really.  My mistake. Perhaps I heard wrong.”

“You did,” she replied, and he saw her press her lips together, as if she were replaying the kiss in her mind.

Jaime took a swipe at her then, and she easily stepped back and away from it, letting the blow glance off her blade.  She was as good as and possibly even better than his Kingsguard brethren of old, but it wouldn’t do to flatter her now.

“Are you going to use that thing or is it just for show?” she taunted as she swung at his right arm.  He raised his arm and parried the blow, metal scraping against metal.

Then they descended into a hurried exchange, each of them swinging in turn, swords clashing with just enough restraint to keep it from being an all out fight.  They swung and blocked and feinted for a good five minutes until they both stepped back, puffing hot breath out into the cold air. Jaime admired her form--a unique, lurching dance.

“I love the way you move,” Jaime said as he caught his breath.  Then he stood back up and took his stance. He was going to get her now.  He lunged. She caught him, barely. “I just might love everything about you,” he murmured and he pressed his sword against hers, their faces inches apart.  Her eyes softened, but her grip was strong, and she pushed him back, sending him reeling on his heels. 

“If you mean to distract me, it won’t work,” Brienne said with little conviction.

“And you love me.  It can only mean one thing, really.  We’re  _ in love. _ ”  He said it like a taunt.

Finally, the tip of her sword dropped, and he readied himself to attack, thinking she was losing focus.  But when he looked back up to face her he saw that her big blue eyes were full of hurt. She let Oathkeeper’s point drop all the way to the ground.

“Brienne, I’m sorry, I was just joking around.”

Her eyes grew wide and her fucking  _ chin _ trembled and he was suddenly terrified that he’d upset her.   Of course he had, and he felt like a fool. Cersei had never once doubted his love, even when she should have, but Brienne… He sheathed his own sword then stooped to pick hers up.

“Brienne,” he said.  He began to slide Oathkeeper into the scabbard at her hip.  She watched the steel slide into the leather then met his eyes with a look that had softened to annoyance.

“I do love you, you know,” he whispered, her distress dragging the confession out of him.  He dared to circle his right arm around her waist as Oathkeeper slid all the way in to the hilt.  It thunked softly against the leather. Then she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and pulled him close, burying her face into his neck.  Her hair smelled like winter and sweat of exertion and he turned his nose into it. She pulled back just enough to press her lips to his. Her kiss managed to be both awkward and perfect at the same time.   _ Just as she fights.   _ He moved his hand to the side of her face, turning her head slightly, and then he brushed his tongue against her lips.  She opened her mouth without hesitation, and then he was lost in her. They kissed frantically for a bit, too eager to be bothered by the bumping of noses or the occasional collision of teeth or foreheads.  Then they settled into a relaxed, lazy rhythm, and when her hands finally began to roam up his neck and down to his waist, he moaned softly in encouragement. He tilted her chin up and kissed along her neck, tasting the salty sheen of sweat, relishing in the little gasps that escaped her.  When they finally broke apart, he ran his thumb along her cheek and smiled.

“You’re a gifted swordswoman, Brienne.  Best spar I’ve ever had,” he quipped lightly, but his heart clenched at he look in her eyes.

“I love you, Jaime,” she said, her voice wavering softly.  The sweetness of her words nearly destroyed him right there.  He had to close his eyes to center himself, but he kissed her once more.  Then he smoothed her hair and took her hand in his.

“Come, we should get back to camp,” he said.

 

The next morning, Bronn climbed out of the bedrolls quite early, rousing Jaime from sleep.  Bronn stood up and stretched his arms over his head, letting out a big yawn, then looked down at him.

“I’m taking Pod hunting,” he said.

“What?  Why?” They were nearly to Riverrun, only a half-day’s ride out.  They didn’t need to hunt now.

“I just want some time with the lad.  He’s grown on me. We’ll be gone an hour at least.  That leaves you and Brienne all by your lonesome. I’m sure you’ll find something to do.”

Jaime felt heat rising to his face and for once, he had nothing to say.  

“Be back soon.  Maybe I’ll catch you a rabbit, darling,” Bronn ribbed him, then took his bow and quiver and left.

Brienne returned from filling their water skins a few minutes later.  And thanks to Bronn, Jaime couldn’t think of anything else but pulling her under the furs and seeing how many items of clothing she’d let him remove.  Not that he had the balls to do it. Charging a dragon paled in comparison.

“Where are Bronn and Podrick?” she asked as she placed the full skins in a saddlebag.

“They went hunting,” Jaime replied and propped himself up on his elbows.

“What the bloody hells for?” she asked, irritation in her voice.

“Rabbit, I think,” he said, knowing full well that was not what she meant.  “Now stop fussing with the water skins and come over here.” He braced himself for her reaction to that request, but she strode over to him and looked down at him.

“What?” she asked, hands on her hips.

He nodded to the furs next to him and perked up his eyebrows suggestively.  She blushed and tried to furrow her brow but she ended up smiling, and then to his elation she lay down next to him, but that was it.  He was going to have to take charge of this if they were going to do more than lay there and stare at the trees overhead.

“My lady, I do miss sharing a bed with you,” he said and flung the furs over her, rolling up on his right side to look down at her.  “Bronn tries his best, but he’s just not as good of a snuggler as you are.” He dipped his head down to meet her lips, and soon their tongues met as well.  Her hands when to his hair and his fingers crept bravely up her side, and then he steeled his courage and grazed his palm across her breast.

She gasped but then must have summoned some courage of her own, because she allowed it.  Even through the thick fabric of her gambeson, he could faintly make out the stiffened peak of her nipple.  Her hips ground against him, and then she suddenly pulled back, apparently shocked by what her body had just done.

“It’s alright.  I can stop if you want,” he murmured.  She looked completely out of her element, but also a little disappointed at the prospect of that, so he went on.  “Or I can continue to paw at you through all these layers you’ve got on.” His hand when to the laces of her gambeson.  “Or I could divest you of some of them.”

She pressed her lips together then nodded.  He unlaced her gambeson, slowly but deftly with one hand, then pushed the fabric to the sides, revealing the thin shirt she wore beneath.  It tied at the collar, so he tugged that open right away too. He could see a hint of the pink tips of her nipples through her shirt, and her breath quickened.   _ Never let it be said that I left my lady  in need,  _ he thought wryly.

He returned to kissing her and began to massage her breasts through the light fabric.  She began to whimper softly and roll her hips against him. He trailed his lips down to her collar bone and slid his hand beneath her shirt, and then there was nothing between them.  Her breasts were small, no doubt, but they fit perfectly in his palm. And now she was clutching his back and grinding against him. He had to admit he was pleasantly surprised by her responsiveness--he’d been worried she’d be too timid, but she must feel safe with him, and that was a wonderful thought.

He pushed her shirt up and bared her breasts.  His eyes raked over the expanse of smooth, pale skin before he lowered his lips.  When his mouth found her nipple, he sucked gently, massaging the tip with his tongue and she began to moan and pull his head closer.  The waist of her pants was loose enough for him to slide his hand down into her smallclothes, into the coarse hair, and then he reached his destination and found it wet with desire.  It didn’t take much to push her over the edge, and she panted his name as she came, clinging to him with such a force that he wondered if she meant to crush him.

“Well,” he said as she lay back in the furs.  She quickly pulled her shirt back down and began to lace her gambeson.  His cock was as hard as Casterly Rock, but Bronn and Pod would be back soon, so he kissed her cheek and stood up.  “I’ll start packing up camp. Feel free to help me once you’ve recovered.”

“Gods, you’re a cocky ass,” she mumbled, but made no attempt to get up.

“You’re welcome,” he said with a grin, then began packing.

 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - -

 

When Bronn and Pod finished hunting, they each had a fat, grey rabbit over their shoulder.  Bronn felt refreshed, and the hunt had cleared his head. He’d finally come up with a plan for taking the Twins.  There were a slew of unique problems with the situation. There was simply no time for a seige, so there went that.  He also had limited intelligence on the situation inside the castle, but he knew it was full of women and children that could be used as hostages.  Plus, it wasn’t just one castle, but two. If they managed to only take one, the Mummers could hole up on the opposite side of the river in the other castle.  And the Twins were of no use unless they could use the bridge to move troops out of the North when the time came. But he’d worked it out now--he just had to see what Jaime thought of it.

“What’s your hurry, Pod?” Bronn asked when he noticed Pod trudging ahead of him.  The lad had been quieter than usual.

“We should get back.  Lady Brienne doesn’t like me gone too long.”

Bronn cracked a lopsided smile.  “Oh she doesn’t, does she? I think you just don’t want to leave  _ her _ for too long.  Don’t worry about your lady, she can take care of herself.  She doesn’t need her little squire hanging on her skirts.”

Pod turned to look at him, and the dark expression on his face took Bronn by surprise.  “I’ll be more than a squire some day.”

“Are you sour about her and Jaime?” Bronn asked seriously, getting right to the point.

“No,” Pod sighed.  “I mean, I don’t think so.  It's just that she’s a highborn lady.  There’s a certain way you go about courting a highborn lady.”

“Is there now?” Bronn stopped walking.  He wanted to get to the bottom of this before they got back to camp.  “I had my own highborn lady once, had her screaming my name the first night we met.  Never did get married. But you sound like you’re speaking from experience.” The lad fancied someone, but who?

“I’m not; I’ve got no experience.”

“Those King’s Landing whores think otherwise.”

“I mean with courting a lady,” Pod said.  His face had softened, and Bronn was starting to feel bad for the boy.  He looked lovesick.

“Whose this lady you’re after?” Bronn asked.

Pod just shook his head.  “It doesn’t matter; she’s married.  At least, I think she is.”

“Ah, that doesn’t matter.  Whose she married to? I’ll get rid of him,” Bronn said lightly, japing in hopes of getting Pod to spit it out.

“She’s married to Lord Tyrion.”  Pod’s expressive brown eyes looked up at him from beneath his thick  eyebrows, full of pain.

_ Lady Sansa.  Oh boy.  _ Bronn ran his hand through his hair and sighed.  “They never consummated the marriage. And didn’t Littlefinger marry her off to that bastard of Bolton’s since then?”

Pod’s jaw clenched with a sneer.  “He did. I’d kill him slow and painful too for what he did to her, if he weren’t already dead.”

Bronn believed him.  “Let’s get this business with the Twins over.  Then we’ll work on your lady woes. There’s a good chance you’ll see her soon if the North has to retreat.”

Pod nodded.  “Thank you, Ser Bronn.”

Bronn clapped him on the back.  Poor boy was in love. Bronn wondered if Lady Sansa even knew who he was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed :D For real, they will finally get to Riverrun next chapter lol, Edmure Tully incoming.


	18. Riverrun

Riverrun

 

They reached Riverrun that evening.  The waters of the Red Fork still rushed and roared with life, not yet frozen over, and where it split, the great castle rose up from the water proudly, as if it were itself responsible for dividing the river in two.  Unlike the last time Jaime had been here, there were no tents or siege weapons littering the fields surrounding the castle, and the massive drawbridge lay open across the river.

A mounted patrol met them as they descended the hill and approached the bridge.

“Ser Jaime,” a soldier in commander’s garb addressed him.  “It is good to see you.” The way the man said it gave Jaime pause, as if there was a list of disasters he was about to unload on him.  “I am Ser Terren Kenning, commander at Riverrun. I am in your service and the castle is yours.”

“Ser Terren, this is Lady Brienne of Tarth, Ser Bronn of the Blackwater, and Podrick Payne.”

The commander greeted them and gave a respectful nod to Brienne.  “I will have the castellan ready rooms for all of you. Ser Jaime, I have news.  I would speak with you in my office. There are ravens for you as well.”

_Oh Gods, ravens._  His skin crawled.  He’d been blissfully disconnected from the world at large during their time snowed in at the Kneeling Man, but he couldn’t run from it forever.

“Alright, I’ll see you all later,” Jaime said to his companions, catching Brienne’s eyes for a moment.

“First ale’s on me; I’ve got a feeling you’re going to need it,” Bronn muttered as he rode past, following the castellan with Brienne and Pod.

 

As Jaime and Ser Terren rode across the drawbridge, he could tell his horse had some newfound pep in her step.  Jaime smiled and stroked his hand down her mane. She was excited for a proper berth at a castle stable, quality oats, and the safety of stone walls.  The soldiers in the main yard made way for him, some of them looking at him like they were seeing some great legend. _Or a ghost._ Jaime sat tall in the saddle, calm and comfortable.  He needed to inspire confidence in these men, men that had committed treason for him, risking their lives and the lives of their families.  He would fight until his last breath to ensure they wouldn’t regret it.

“We’d heard Sandor Clegane was with you,” Ser Terran said as he led Jaime to his office within the castle.

“He was, but he turned north at the Kneeling Man.”

“Odd place to turn north,” the commander replied.

“I’ve decided to stop trying to make sense of Sandor Clegane.”  Jaime found the Hound became much more tolerable when Jaime stopped expecting him to behave like a normal person.  He smiled to himself - that sounded worse than he’d meant it, so he kept it to himself.

“But can he be trusted?  He knows you are a free man.”

“So the ruse is still working, then?” Jaime asked.  Jaime did trust Sandor, but It wouldn’t matter soon anyway if Edmure was agreeable to Jaime’s offer.

“Yes, the deception is still in place.  The Queen hasn’t tried to bring your double back to King’s Landing yet either.”

“She is not your Queen,” Jaime said, “Nor mine.”  The words came from his mouth like a reflex, unplanned.

“Of course, Ser Jaime.”  Ser Terran replied.

“Have Roslin Frey and the boy arrived yet?”  He’d sent orders to have Roslin and her son brought to Riverrun.  He’d foolishly hoped they would be found in Lannisport, the safest city near the Rock.  It was the logical place to keep her since the Rock had been stormed by the Unsullied army.  But somehow he knew that wouldn’t turn out to be the case--it would be too easy.

Ser Terren’s face fell as he pushed the door to his office open, letting Jaime in first.  The room was large with a hulking square map table in the middle and a number of desks and bookshelves lining the walls.  Ser Terren closed the door soundly behind them.

“They have not.  That was one of the things I needed to speak with you about.  It appears that Walder Frey never sent the girl and her son to the Westerlands as he was commanded.  Their last known location is the Twins.”

He knew it.  Fucking Walder Frey.  Even in death, the crusty old man was still managing to be a thorn in his side.  Jaime sat down heavily in a chair at the map table and ran his hand down his beard.  “Wonderful,” he replied. “Well, what other good news do you have for me?”

“There is word from the capitol that the Queen--Cersei, I mean, has sequestered herself in her rooms and hasn’t been seen in over a week.  And her Hand rarely leaves his laboratory, even taking his meals there.” Ser Terran continued, unfazed by Jaime’s paling face. “And rumor is that Ser Robert Strong has gone rogue and roams the Red Keep, killing handmaids in the night.”

_Cersei has lost the child._  Jaime knew it in his heart.  She was no longer pregnant. Perhaps she’d never been in the first place; it had been quite convenient timing, but he would never know for certain.  A profound sense of loss struck him, clenching in his chest, threatening to well up into his face, his eyes. He had to stand up and pretend to look at a map on the table to keep Ser Terren from noticing.  Ever since he’d been given a fleeting glimpse of fatherhood with Myrcella, it had became a desire he couldn’t quite put from his mind. He’d left his alleged unborn child behind, yes, but he’d done it to protect the realm, to fulfill his oaths, to ensure there was a world left for his child to live in.  In his wildest dreams, he would imagine returning victorious from the North and taking his son or daughter back to the Rock to rear as his own. He would not have let Cersei have the babe, not this time.

Unwilling to think on it further, he asked, “Is there any word on the Golden Company?”

“Euron Greyjoy was a day out from Braavos to secure funds from the Iron Bank the last we heard.  We intercepted a raven in the capitol before it was delivered to Qyburn. That was a week ago. Greyjoy will meet with Strickland in Pentos.  Ser Harlan has sent a recon team there under the sails of a merchant vessel to scout the city.”

Good, there was still time to stop the deal.  He would have to let Tyrion know. Jaime hadn’t realized that Greyjoy needed to sail for Braavos first.   _Thank the bloody gods for small blessings._  With Ser Harlan’s quick thinking, they stood a fair chance of at least delaying the deal, if not breaking it all together.

“Here are your scrolls.  They only arrived in the last day, otherwise I would have sent a rider out to find you.”

Jaime took the scrolls.  Two were crisp and fresh while one was weather-beaten even through the leather pouch it had traveled in.  He opened that one first.

 

_Jaime, things are not going well at Winterfell.  The army of the dead is marching night and day down the Kingsroad, and I can only imagine they will be here within the next few weeks.  I am urging a retreat to the Neck, but I’m meeting some resistance at the idea of abandoning Winterfell, as I’m sure you can imagine. I need the wildfire from King’s Landing, and I may have to go there myself to get it.  Varys will sail for Pentos to stop the deal with the Golden Company. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you this again, but we need the Twins. Evacuation is imminent. Tyrion_

 

The North was falling faster than Jaime had anticipated.  The army of the dead marched without the need to sleep or eat as a mortal army would.  Jaime pictured thousands of those monsters moving across the fields of snow. They needed no protection from the cold either, he imagined.  Apparently there were significant advantages to being a walking, rotted corpse.

The next scroll was from Ser Harlan.  Nothing earth-shattering, just an update on the fortification of the Riverlands.  It was going well.

He held the third scroll in his hand.  It felt heavier than the others.

“That one was sent to Harrenhal.  Ser Harlan forwarded it on. Whoever it’s from must believe you a prisoner there.”

Jaime broke the seal, a plain black wax dot.

 

_Dearest Ser Jaime,_

 

_I regret to inform you of the loss of your unborn child.  The Queen is resting comfortably. Your presence is required in the capitol.  A guard of my men will retrieve you within the fortnight._

 

_Yours,_

_Qyburn_

 

Jaime felt his mouth fall open.  Qyburn wanted him? What for? Surely something depraved and unnatural.  His stump ached at the thought of the man. And Qyburn was sending “his men” to fetch him from Harrenhal.  Since when did the disgraced Maester have swords sworn to his service? The thought made Jaime uneasy. He strode over to the fire and threw all three scrolls into the flames.

“Send a raven to Harrenhal immediately.  Under no circumstances should they let Qyburn’s men take my double back to King’s Landing.”  If they took the farmer, it would buy Jaime more time to work on Edmure, but Jaime couldn't stomach the thought of giving the man to Qyburn.

“As you command, Ser Jaime,” Ser Terran replied.

Alright, it was time to get this over with.  ‘Where is Edmure Tully?” Jaime asked. He would write Tyrion as soon as he was done with Edmure.

“He’s probably in the practice yard.  He spends most of his waking hours there.  I’ll send men to fetch him.”

_In the practice yard?_  Jaime had never known Edmure to particularly enjoy swordplay, and with a bow and arrow he couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn.

“No, don’t bother.  I’ll go get him.”

 

The practice yard was clear of snow thanks to the overhang of the roof above, though the triangular space was still open to the elements.  Jaime scanned the yard. It was mostly empty except for a pair of men sparring in the far corner. He was surprised not to find Brienne and Pod there.  Perhaps Brienne was allowing herself to relax for once. She probably had a bath brought to her. Gods, that sounded nice.

Jaime strode through the yard.  The pair of men paid him no mind.  They were completely immersed in their sparring.  One man had his back to him. He had dark, sweat-soaked hair tied up at the back of his head, broad shoulders and a tapered waist.  He was relentless and seemed to never tire. The man facing him looked to be a soldier, probably a Tully man that was conscripted into the Lannister army by the looks of his scaled spaulders.  Jaime was just beginning to think that Edmure wasn’t here after all, when the dark haired man knocked the other into the dirt and turned his face enough for Jaime to see him in profile and for the sun to catch the subtle Tully red in his hair.  It was Edmure, considerably more filled out and muscular than the last time Jaime had seen him.

“Lord Edmure,” he called to him.

Edmure turned to face him and his eyes narrowed with recognition.  “Ser Jaime, I’d heard you were coming. Are you here to bring me my wife and son?”  He sneered.

“I’m sorry about that, truly.  They should have been safe at Lannisport as I’d ordered.  Your goodfather disobeyed my command.”

Edmure twirled his sword at his side with a casual flick of his wrist.  He walked up to Jaime with a disinterested look on his face. It was a practice sword, Jaime saw, more relieved than he cared to admit.  This was not the broken Edmure Tully he’d met at the siege. This was a conditioned swordsman with nothing to lose.

“Oh yes, tell me about how you had nothing to do with this either.”  Edmure came to a stop a few paces away. While his body had hardened, he still had the square face and crooked teeth Jaime remembered.

“Edmure, I have an offer for you.  Surely you’ve heard about the army of the dead, about the Dragon Queen, the Wall?  We don’t have time for these petty squabbles right now. Let’s go somewhere we can speak in private.”

“Petty squabbles.  Is that what we are calling it now?  Convenient name for just another broken promise.  You promised me my family would be returned, yet my wife and child are at the mercy of a band of sellswords!”  Edmure’s stoney composure broke for just a moment. “While I sit here, a prisoner, unable to save my family. Again.”

Fuck.  Edmure was right.  Jaime should have seen to it himself that Edmure’s wife and child were sent to the Westerlands, not trusted Walder Frey to do it.

“I’ll listen to what you have to say,” Edmure said with slightly less attitude in his voice.  “Come,’ he added and jerked his head for Jaime to follow him. He threw his practice sword to the lone soldier in the yard and led Jaime into the castle.

 

Edmure took them around quite a few turns and down a handful of hallways before he reached their destination.  They entered a room with high ceilings and large windows that overlooked the Red Fork. The furniture was covered by sheets to keep the dust off.  Long tables and benches, judging by the shape, with a shorter table up on a dais. It was the old Great Hall.

“No one uses it anymore,” Edmure said as he watched Jaime look around.  “Riverrun is a military stronghold now, nothing more. But I grew up in this hall as a child, tugging on my mother’s skirts until I was old enough to be trained by our Master-at-Arms.”

Jaime turned to face him.  He decided to just get to the point.  “Edmure, I’m here to reinstate you as Lord of Riverrun.  I’m no longer in the service of the Crown. I am fortifying the Riverlands in preparation to make a stand against the army of the dead.”

“You’ve left _the Crown_.  You mean, you’ve left Cersei?  But last time we spoke, all you could talk about was her.  ‘Cersei, only Cersei.’ You couldn’t stop yammering about how nothing mattered by Cersei, if my memory serves.”  Edmure stared him down, and it felt like he was looking into his very soul and laughing at what he found.

“You know, after our little talk I got to thinking about Cersei and Cat,” Edmure continued.  “You thought them to be so similar, that they would do anything for their children, that they would level mountains and part seas to save them.”

Jaime remained silent, his jaw working, his stomach sinking.

“I heard about King Tommen.  What a tragedy. Falling from his balcony.  Not very coordinated, was he?” Edmure said, casually picking at his blunt fingernails.

_He didn’t fall, he jumped._ Edmure knew that though.  And now Jaime had finally admitted it to himself.

“You know,” Edmure continued as he stalked over to him, slow and deliberate.  “When Rob was murdered at my wedding feast, they say that Cat was so distraught she went wild.”  Edmure paused and Jaime saw him swallow as he tried to keep his emotions in check. “She clawed at her face, ripping at her own flesh, she was in such agony.  My sister fought until her dying breath for her children. Tell me, did Cersei do the same?”

Jaime was listening to Edmure’s words, staring straight into his dark brown eyes, but he found his body was numb, his tongue useless.  He couldn’t remember if Cersei had even shed a tear for Tommen. She’d wailed over Joffrey’s body, but had it been at the death of their son or at the blow to her power?  And Myrcella. Jaime’s chest ached, and he could feel her willowy body against him as the life left her beautiful eyes. Instead of grief, Cersei had been filled with rage at the slight against their house and at the thought of someone taking away something that she considered _hers._

“What will I owe you in exchange for returning Riverrun to me?” Edmure asked, moving on after Jaime’s silence.  “You want me to swear fealty to you?” He scoffed.

“No.  To Daenerys Targaryen,” Jaime said.  The name stuck in his throat. But Jon Snow had bent the knee to her, and there was no other way to unite Westeros against the dead.  “The Riverlands needs a leader to recover from the ravages of war. In short time, the North could be retreating here. I will be leading a small force to retake the Twins, and I will return you wife and son to you.”  If they were still alive, but that went without saying.

Edmure seemed to stand taller and his face softened to something resembling the Edmure Jaime remembered from the few times he’d met him in his youth.

“I will do this on one condition,” Edmure said.  “You will take me with you to the Twins. I was unable to save my family once, and I will regret that for the rest of my life.  I will not let it happen again.”

“Alright, we have a deal,” Jaime replied.  He wasn’t happy about Edmure coming to the Twins, mainly because if the mission when poorly the Riverlands would be without any leaders, but how could Jaime deny him the chance to save his family?  “Now, we have ravens to send and banners to unfurl.”

 

That evening, Edmure Tully sat on the dais of the Great Hall with Tully banners draped down the brick and mortar of Riverrun.  Ravens had already been released to fly to every corner of the realm proclaiming that Lord Edmure Tully of Riverrun and Ser Jaime Lannister of Casterly Rock swear their fealty and all their lands and armies to Queen Daenerys Targaryen, first of her name.

Jaime sat next to Edmure.  They were the lone people on the dais.  Brienne sat with Bronn and Podrick at a table near the front of the hall.  Jaime managed to catch Brienne’s eyes a few times and even got a smile out her when no one was looking.  All he wanted to do was crawl into bed with her and love her in any way she would allow him to. But instead he had to sit here with Edmure Tully.  Though the man wasn’t half as bad as Jaime had expected. They fell into conversation which was at first reluctant but began to flow as the feast wore on.

Later, after the feast had ended and the crowds had broken off into smaller, more intimate groups, Jaime found Bronn drinking with some of the Lannister soldiers.

“Well, how was all that?  Must have gone well enough,” Bronn said, gesturing to the Tully banners hanging on the walls.

“It actually went better than I expected.  But there’s one thing. Edmure will be coming with us to the Twins.  He wants to get his wife and son back.”

Bronn slammed his mug on the table, then leaned close to him and hissed, “Absolutely not.  He’ll fuck it up.”

“What? Why would you think that?”

“Because he fucks everything up!  He’s Edmure fucking Tully! And what’s this about bending the knee to the Dragon Queen?  You do remember that she tried to burn us all alive, don’t you?”

Jaime had thought about this already.  Perhaps he was feeling especially confident, but he wasn’t intimidated by the girl.  Plus, Edmure would be much less likely to rebel against the Dragon Queen than against Jaime anyway, and if reinstating Edmure turned out to be a complete disaster, it would be Daenerys’ problem, not his.  

“I remember.  Believe me, the last thing I want is another mad Targaryen on the throne.  But there will _be_ no throne unless we defeat the army of the dead.  This is the only way,” Jaime said.

“And if we somehow manage to win this war?  Then what? She could be old Aerys come again, but this time it would be Aerys with dragons.”

“Well we almost killed her and her dragon once, and that was on our first try.  And I’ll try again if I have to, if she proves to be as poor a queen as her father was a king.

“You’re ridiculous, you know that don’t you?  I suppose you’ll be expecting me to save your ass again, too,” Bronn replied.  Then he grinned. “Brienne went upstairs, just in case you were curious. Said she needed a bath.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you ITC for your awesome and efficient beta-help!
> 
> I hope you enjoyed Edmure fuckin' Tully :D Thank you for reading!!


	19. Riverrun (part two)

**Riverrun (part two)**

  
  


After the castellan had shown her to her room and she’d gotten settled and changed out of her riding clothes, Brienne wandered the castle.  Unlike the last time she was here, she could take the time to appreciate the scenery of the Red Fork and the Tumblestone and the snow-covered trees out the large windows in the outer sandstone walls of the keep.  The soldiers and staff whispered to each other around every corner, buzzing with curiosity. Everyone but the ranking officers here had believed Jaime to be a prisoner of the crown at Harrenhal. She even got some glances of her own, particularly from the soldiers.  A few even mustered the courage to nod to her and greet her as “my lady Brienne.” It was a strange thing to have her reputation precede her, when she’d spent most of her life desperately trying to prove herself.

She stopped in the sept briefly and admired the stained glass windows and stood before the antique, carved wood statues of the Seven.  The paint was faded and the quality lacking by today’s standards, but there was a rare beauty to them that she could appreciate. She felt as if she should say some kind of prayer, so she sent a quick one up to keep her father safe on Tarth.  Then she left and went to the rookery.

The triangular room was at the top of the eastern guard tower.  She sat down at a desk and took a blank scroll then dabbed the quill in the ink.

 

_ Dear Father, _

 

_ I am well and at Riverrun.  I am here in an effort to unify the realm in defense against the army of the dead.  Surely you have heard of the meeting in the Dragon Pit and the dead man- _

 

She stopped abruptly.  She couldn’t say much of anything else in case the raven was intercepted.  Nothing about the Twins or the Golden Company, or even Jaime being here. Edmure had yet to agree to the deal so nothing could be disclosed.

 

_ Please stay safe and expect the enemy from north or south, east or west.  I will write you again as soon as I can. I love you. _

 

_ Brienne _

 

“Where to, my lady?” the old Maester asked.

“To Tarth please.  Evenfall Hall.”

“Ahh, Tarth.  The Sapphire Isle,” he replied and his wrinkled eyes squinted even more as he smiled wistfully.  “I hiked to the top of Durran’s Peak in my youth. Beautiful, and treacherous too,” he chuckled. “But worth it.  The hardest things usually are. And you must be Lady Brienne, the Evenstar’s daughter and the heir to Tarth.”

“I am,” she replied.  His love for her home island was endearing.

“Have you any children, my lady?”

“I am not married,” Brienne replied, taken aback by the Maester’s forwardness.  “So no, I do not.”

“I know you haven’t taken a husband, my lady.  Forgive me if I offended you. I was maester of Bear Island some years ago.  You remind me of the women there. Warriors capable of defending their island.  They bear children whenever and with whomever they see fit.”

Brienne remembered Lady Lyanna Mormont of Bear Island.  She was a fierce little thing. It was an interesting way of life and there was something empowering about it.  Not that she could ever live that life.  _ But I already am living part of it.  I carry a sword at my hip. _

“I will see to it that your scroll reaches Tarth, my lady.  It was a pleasure to meet you.”

“Thank you, you as well.”  Brienne gave him a closed lip smile and left the rookery.

She was lounging in her room, enjoying simply laying in the warmth and comfort of a private room in a castle when Bronn knocked on her door.

“The Trout’s taken the deal,” he said, sauntering in after she’d opened the door.

“Have you spoken to Jaime yet?”

“No, not yet.  But that’s the official word.  The ravens are already flying, and there’s gonna be a feast tonight.”  Bronn eyes shone with excitement. He hadn’t grown up with feasts and celebrations and great halls.  He’d probably gone to bed hungry quite often. Brienne on the other hand would rather just lay in bed all evening.

“Oh come on,” Bronn said when he saw her unenthused expression.  “Food, drinking, music. What else could you want?” Then he gave her the most lewd smile she’d ever seen.  “I mean, besides  _ that _ .”

Heat spread up her neck to her face and she found she had no words.  Bronn was no fool, of course he knew, but still.

“I’ll see you at the feast, Ser Bronn,” Brienne said with as much composure as her flaming red cheeks would allow.

Bronn tipped his head to her and strode back out.

 

The feast was pure torture.  Jaime sat on the dais right before her but just out of ear shot for any kind of conversation.  He’d gotten his beard and hair trimmed and he wore a Lannister tunic and fine black pants and boots.  The seamstresses must have been busy altering clothes for him. Beside him sat Edmure Tully. He was not as she had pictured him in her mind.  She’d seen him from a distance at the siege of Riverrun and he’d looked to be an average man of average build. But the man she saw now was broad in the shoulders and the sleeves of his own tunic strained against bulging muscle beneath.  He had sharp eyes that watched everything around him and his long hair was pulled back at the nape of his neck. His sword hung at his side and the crest of House Tully lay across his chest. She supposed that after the Red Wedding, Edmure wasn’t about to take any chances.

Jaime looked so powerful and confident up there, jaw set and feet planted firmly on the floor with his knees relaxed apart.  It made the place between her legs ache in such a way that she was shifting in her chair, crossing one leg and then the other.  It was embarrassing.

Finally, the feast proper was over and she immediately rose from her chair and bid Bronn and Podrick goodnight.

“Would you like me to escort you to your room, m’lady?” Pod asked earnestly.

He knew better than that.  What had gotten into him? Perhaps it was all the strange faces around the castle.

“Your lady can walk to her room by her bloody self,” Bronn butted in.  “But I sure as shit don’t want to drink by myself.”

Brienne gave her squire a frown.  “I’m going to have a bath and go to bed.  I’ll see you all in the morning.” Pod looked a little put out but Bronn was ordering another round for them already.  He would be fine.

 

It was late and Brienne was fighting off yawns by the time the maids had her bath ready.  She sent the girls away, stripped and sank into the steaming water. The tub was big enough that she could almost stretch her legs out straight in front her, and she laid her head back on the edge of the tub and closed her eyes.  She let her arms float out at her sides and enjoyed the feeling of semi-weightlessness after having been on her feet since the early morning. Except for when Jaime had touched her, then she’d been on her back. Gods, that had really happened hadn’t it?  Her toes curled at the memory of his mouth on her breasts, his hand slipping into her pants. It was so much better than anything she’d done to herself in the darkness of night, alone and wondering if she should be ashamed of herself or not. She supposed he would be down in the great hall until late in the night.

She heard the door open behind her and assumed it was one of the maids bringing her more oils or soaps or whatever else they felt she needed to clean herself appropriately.  They’d already left a few huge, fluffy towels and some oil for her hair when they’d drawn her bath before. 

“Brienne?” she heard Jaime’s voice call from behind the privacy curtain the maids had hung up near the door.  She instinctively ducked down into the tub and covered her breasts.

“I’m in the bath, just a moment,” she answered, but he was already walking into her room.  She stayed low in the tub, feeling absolutely foolish considering what they’d done together, but her modesty persisted.

“Gods, I’m exhausted,” he said and flopped back onto her bed.  His arms were spread out at his sides and he stared at the ceiling.  “I could sleep for days. I hate dealing with politics.”

“I know,” she replied sympathetically.  It struck her what an intimate statement that was.  She’d already known he had been dreading this whole ordeal, she knew him so well.

“Edmure’s coming with us to the Twins,” he said.  “Bronn’s not happy. I’m not either, truth be told.  But it was the one condition he gave me.”

“He deserves that chance.  His wife and child are there,” Brienne replied.

“I know,” Jaime said and then ran his hand across his face with a sigh.  “It’s just that it’s yet another complication.”

Brienne frowned and sunk a little further into the tub as a terrible thought managed to creep into her mind.  Was she a complication for him too? This... whatever this was? She closed her eyes and tried to push the thought away.  He’d given her absolutely no reason to think that, but there was still a tiny, dark corner of her mind that whispered that he could not possibly love her as she loved him.

She glanced over at him.  He was still lying on the bed, his boots dangling off the end and his right arm cast across his eyes.  She grabbed the towel and took the opportunity to quickly get out of the tub. He’d seen her naked before, but she wasn’t sure she was ready for him to see her full body in the illuminating light of the room.

After wrapping herself up as well as she could in the towel, she padded across the room and sat down at the vanity.  She heard Jaime get up from the bed and then he appeared in the cloudy mirror next to her. He kissed her cheek and then murmured in her ear.

“The feast was torture.  All I could think about was you.”  He turned her face to his and kissed her lips.  “And how much I wanted to do that… among other things.”  And he grinned wickedly. Then he walked over to the tub and stripped off his own clothes as she tried not to watch him in the mirror.  It was impossible though. His arms and legs rippled with lean muscle, even his right arm that ended in the stump. He must have figured out a way to exercise it.  He had a patch of blonde hair on his chest that tapered off down his belly until it reached the place between his legs. He was less hairy than Sandor, and then Brienne’s eyes grew wide in the mirror.  Jaime was much bigger than she remembered Sandor being, but then she realized that was because he was aroused and she blushed and looked away.

Jaime sank into the tub with a sigh.  “I didn’t have time for a bath earlier.”  Then he was quiet for a time as he relaxed in the water.

She towelled her hair dry then opened the bottle of oil the maids had left.  She put a few drops in her palm and worked the oil through her hair, watching her own movements critically in the mirror.  When she was done with that she grabbed a small container off the desktop. When she unscrewed the top, a wonderful aroma wafted up to her nose and she smiled.  It was just as she remembered. Her father had bought this balm for her all her life until she’d left Tarth for Renly’s camp. It was a fine item from the artisan perfumers of Myr and was her mother’s favorite scent, a crisp, clean lemon verbena.  She’d found it by chance at a vendor stall in King’s Landing but hadn’t had an opportunity to use it yet. She scooped a dollop out with her fingertips and worked it into her hands. The balm sank into her skin, leaving it soft and moisturized. She put some on her feet too, concentrating on her heels.  Tromping around in boots in the cold had done a number on them.

“This is entirely more primping than I ever imagined,” Jaime said from the tub and she realized he’d been watching her.  “Is that lemon?”

“Yes, my father used to buy it for my mother, and then for me.”  Though she couldn’t remember her mother’s face or voice, sometimes she thought she could remember this scent and it had a calming effect on her.

“Tyrion wrote me that he is encouraging a retreat to the Riverlands.  The army of the dead is marching on Winterfell.”

So it was as bad as she had guessed.  She hoped Sandor made it to the castle before the enemy did.  He would keep the Stark girls safe. But there was more Jaime wanted to say, so she waited.

“Qyburn wrote me as well.  He sent the raven to Harrenhal and Ser Harlan forwarded it on to me here.”  Jaime looked down at the water’s surface. “Cersei is no longer pregnant. He said he was sending men to fetch me from Harrenhal.”

Brienne furrowed her brow and pressed her lips together.  That was something she had not expected to hear, and the pain on Jaime’s face made her heart ache, though he was doing his best to hide it.

“I’m so sorry, Jaime.”

He shook his head.  “I thought I could take the baby to the Rock.  Save at least one of my children. It would have been next to impossible, I know, but I would have tried.”

“I know you would have.”

Jaime went silent again and Brienne gave him time to his thoughts.  A few minutes later he got back out of the tub and walked over to the vanity completely naked, water running in rivulets down his muscled belly and legs.  He grabbed a towel and wrapped it around his waist then flopped back down on the bed. He certainly was making himself at home.

“You’re going to get my bed all wet,” she said, trying to lighten the mood.

“I prefer to air dry.  This is my side anyway, so it won’t bother you.”

_ His side?   _ He was planning on sharing a bed?  “I don’t know if its proper for us to share a room here.”  Though even as the words came out of her mouth, she knew she could care less what was proper here.  She wanted Jaime in her bed. If anyone cared, they could go fuck off to Bear Island and really get a shock.  She walked over to the bed and stood next to where he lay.

“Well, it's a good thing we are already married.  Or have you put me aside already, wife?” He reached out and touched the inside of her knee and slowly slid his hand up.  Then he sat up and wrapped his right arm around her waist and pulled her down into the bed, somehow managing to roll her beneath him.  His hand moved briefly over the place between her legs, then ventured up her hip and ribs. Her towel fell away and she was completely naked before him.

He bit his lower lip as he took her in, then smiled and kissed her softly.  It was so quiet in the room, she could hear every little whisper of his breath, every brush of skin.  The kiss was tender even as it deepened and she let her legs fall open so his hips could nestle between then.  He was hard against her thigh, and everything became surreal, like a dream, like nothing existed beyond the edge of the bed.  She wanted him inside her. The urge was overwhelming and powerful as he gently kissed her neck and ran his fingers through her hair.  Gods, she loved him so much it hurt. Her chest ached and she had to swallow back a wave of emotion that suddenly threatened to rise up.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she answered and brought his mouth back to hers.  She ran her hands down his sides and into the towel around his waist, then pushed it down and away.  It slid off the bed and onto the floor and her belly clenched as she pulled him close and felt him press against her center.  He stopped moving for a moment as if he was steadying himself.

“I would marry you first,” he murmured, pressing his forehead to hers.  She took his face in her hands and kissed him. He would; she knew. And he wanted to do right by her, but it was her choice, too.  And something told her that he wouldn’t object too much, and she smiled against his lips at the thought.

His hand trailed down between her legs and he moved his fingertips in little circles at her entrance.  She kissed him as he did it, heat and moisture pooling low in her belly. Then she reached down and touched him tentatively.  He was hard, but his skin was soft, almost velvety and when he entered her, helping her to guide him in, he groaned her name. She felt herself stretch further than she thought possible to accommodate him and then tears pricked at the corners of her eyes and she held him tight against her.

“Are you alright?” he asked, not moving, just letting her get used to the feel of him.

“I am,” she answered.

He began to move in her then, and when he finally spent his seed in her, they were both covered in a sheen of sweat.  He ran his hand over her hair and then cupped it against the side of her face.

“I love you, Brienne.”  His eyes glistened as he looked down upon her.

“I love you, too.”

He slid out of her, then laid his head against her chest and closed his eyes.  She stroked his hair as he fell asleep, and she followed shortly after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you Ill_Tempered_Clavier for the beta, once again you are so awesome and speedy and very helpful with everything :D
> 
> I will be updating on Sandor soon, probably in the chapter after the next one, so don't worry he's not forgotten. I just have to give him time to get somewhere interesting!
> 
> Thanks again for reading and commenting, I hope you enjoyed!


	20. Riverrun (part three)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you Ill_Tempered_Clavier once again for the beta :D

**Riverrun (part three)**

  


A few hours later, Brienne woke up needing to relieve herself.  Jaime was still sleeping with his head nestled down on her shoulder and one of his legs thrown across her own.  She slid out from beneath him and when she stood up, something warm trickled down the insides of her thighs. Her moonsblood wasn’t due to arrive for a few more weeks, and she reached down to touch it and found that it was slippery and pale white with a hint of pink.  Jaime’s seed mixed with a trace of her own blood, she realized, and she rubbed it between her fingers with a naive curiosity.

After relieving herself in the chamber pot, she took a washcloth and dipped it in the water basin. The cool water soothed the soreness between her legs as she cleaned herself up.  There was a little bit a dried blood on her thigh, so she scrubbed that off as well, then wet the cloth again and held it against her skin once more. She was tender, but not alarmingly so, and then she heard Jaime rustle out of the bed.

“Are you sore?” he asked as he approached her.  He’d put his pants back on, but nothing else. Then he saw the bit of blood on the washcloth and his face fell, concerned that he’d hurt her.

“No, I’m fine.  I was just cleaning up a little,” she answered.  It was so quiet in the room she could hear the Tumblestone roaring outside, far below.  The feast must have drawn to a close downstairs.

“Okay,” he replied, his voice rough from sleep.  Then he looked down at her nakedness and the corner of his mouth twitched.

Her heart began to race and she let the washcloth fall from her fingers.  Her whole body was suddenly awake, tingling in anticipation, and she took a step towards him.  That was all it took for him to come to her and pull her into a kiss. It was more aggressive than earlier, possessive and hard.  His hand grabbed her bottom and pulled her tight against him, and she gasped when she felt he was aroused. _Again?!_  Was this common?  When the hells did married couples sleep?

The thought flitted out of her mind as he laid her back on the bed and worked his way down her body, his mouth following his hand down her neck to her breasts.  A pang of need throbbed deep inside her as he took her nipple into his mouth, and she arched against him, wishing desperately for him to touch her again, as he had on the road.  He was rougher than before and she wasn’t quite sure what to make of it. Was she supposed to do something different as well? That thought quickly escaped her as he teased her nipple with his teeth before moving over to the other and doing more of the same.  Her hips ground against him, and she whimpered as he left her nipples exposed to the cool air of the room and trailed his lips down her belly.

“I feel like I need to make amends,” he murmured and smiled up at her, eyes dancing.  Then he settled down between her legs with the backs of her thighs resting on his shoulders.  What was he going to do? “For the distress I’ve caused here,” he finished and he lowered his mouth to her sex.  Oh gods, he was going to--

He moved his tongue against her and she moaned and wrenched her hands into his hair.  It didn’t deter him. He wrapped his arms beneath her bottom and pulled her even closer.  Her breath was coming in short pants now as she fought to maintain control of her body but she couldn’t.  There was nothing to do but surrender herself to it. Her hips rolled as she held onto him for dear life, the release building and building until she thought she couldn’t possibly survive one more moment and then she tipped over the precipice and-

“Oh gods!  Fuck! Jaime!”

She might have screamed then, as waves of pleasure crashed into her.  As she rode out her climax, she felt Jaime’s mouth still on her, his tongue applying pressure--not too much, but just enough, and he knew exactly when to do it.  When she regained her senses, she still had her hands clenched in his hair. She let go with some difficulty, her fingers stiff and reluctant to release their grip.

He looked up at her, hair a mess and, instead of the triumphant, cocky grin she’d expected, he had a dazed look on his face, as if he were looking upon something beautiful.

She pulled him up to her and he flung the blankets over them before kissing her, slow and deep, and then he groaned as she reached down and guided him into her again.

 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

 

Jaime woke up the next morning a little disoriented, but he had this wonderful notion in his head that he’d had sex with Brienne last night.  Twice. Then, when he opened his eyes and saw the back of her head and felt her body tucked in against him, he smiled happily at the evidence that it had been no dream, and he ran his hand down her hip.

Brienne must have felt him, because she murmured something, turned her head to the side and nuzzled against his jaw.  Then, when she wiggled her ass against his already half-hard cock, he realized that he was in fact going to have sex with Brienne for a _third_ time, and he had absolutely no qualms about it.  And afterward, after he’d brought her to her release before finding his own inside her, he was rather impressed with himself.  He’d thought himself too old for doubling down anymore. Or tripling, for that matter.

“It must be nearly midday already,” Brienne mumbled against his chest.  “I need something to eat, but I don’t want to get out of bed.”

Jaime propped himself up on his elbow.  “Such problems you have,” he teased then gave one of her unsuspecting nipples a little pinch.  He couldn’t help it, and he grinned at her outrage.

“Jaime!” she said and swatted his hand away.  She pulled the blanket up over her chest and locked her arms down across it.

“I’m sorry,” he said and kissed her cheek.  “But they were asking for it.”

She scoffed, but he saw she was holding back a smile and, satisfied that she wasn’t actually cross with him, he climbed out of bed to get dressed.

 

It was embarrassingly late in the day when he finally showed his face in the great hall.  He had missed breakfast by a long shot, and was just able to catch the tail end of the midday meal.  Ser Terren was there with a group of officers hunkered down at a table near one of the hearths. Podrick was just leaving, and he gave Jaime a stiff nod as he walked by him.

“Ser Jaime,” he said.  He did not smile. Then it hit him.  Brienne’s little squire was mad at him.  Did the boy fancy his lady knight? _Bloody hells.  This is the last thing I want to deal with._

“Podrick, is everything alright?”

“Depends on what your intentions are with m’lady,” Pod replied coolly, not even adding a ‘ser’ to the statement.  “She’s a highborn lady, and a good person too,” Pod added, stuttering a bit on the last part. “She doesn’t deserve to be used and cast aside.”

 _Ah._  So the boy wasn’t in love with her, just trying to protect her apparently.   _Thank the gods for small favors._  This he could deal with.

“Podrick, I assure you I have nothing but the best of intentions towards her.”  He put his hand on the boy’s shoulder and he saw Pod’s face begin to relax. “I would marry her today if she would let me.  But, as I’m sure you know, no one can make her do anything she isn’t ready or willing to do. Not even me.”

Pod finally smiled his goofy, tight lipped grin.  “Not even you,” he echoed. “I’m sorry if I was rude, Ser Jaime.”

“Not at all.  I’m glad Brienne has you to care for her as well.  I’ll see you later.”

Pod nodded to him and headed out of the great hall.  They would all meet this afternoon in Edmure’s solar to discuss the final strategy for the Twins.  Jaime hoped to leave tomorrow, and he knew Edmure would have left last night if it had been possible.  But they needed to make a plan first. It was going to be tricky, and one misstep could doom them to a long, drawn out seige, or worse.

He saw Brienne walk in then, her face set into its usual stoic expression.  She’d tamed her hair, he noticed with a smirk. It had been in quite a state this morning.  She scanned the room, stopping briefly on the table that Ser Terren and his officers were at, looking for him.  When she saw he was not sitting with them, her eyes moved on and finally spotted him. He smiled at her and nodded to the table he’d sat down at, hoping she would join him.

“Good afternoon, Lady Brienne,” Jaime said as she sat down across from him.  “Did you sleep well?”

“Very well, actually,” and she looked right at him and smiled, with her teeth and all.  It lightened his heart to see it, and he smiled back. Then she cleared her throat and looked down at her plate to regain her composure.  The serving women had brought over bread and cheese and butter.

“So did I,” he replied.

“That’s interesting.  I don’t mean to be rude, but you actually look quite tired.  But also rather pleased with yourself,” she said and took a bite of bread.

Jaime grinned.  “And you’re looking rather well-fucked,” he murmured, just loud enough for her to hear.  “I wonder if anyone will put two and two together?”

Her jaw dropped and she looked more scandalized than he’d ever seen her.  She looked down the length of the table to be sure that no one else heard then glowered at him.

“Don’t worry, no one heard,” Jaime said and reached across to where her hand rested on the table.  He traced down the length of her index finger with his own. She turned her palm up and took his hand into hers then dragged the pad of her thumb across his knuckles.  The gentleness of the gesture made his belly clench.

“Did Bronn tell you his plan?” she asked.

“Yes,” Jaime sighed.  He wasn’t completely sold on the idea, but unless someone thought of something better, they would have to go with it.  “Apparently Cersei put a bounty out on Bronn, and she wants him brought to her alive.” Jaime refused to think on what Cersei planned to do to Bronn once she had him; the prospect was too horrifying.  “He wants one of us to pretend to be a bounty hunter, bring him to the Mummers and try to sell him for a price. A price that is significantly less than what Cersei would pay for him. Hopefully they bite, and throw him in a cell until they can take him to King’s Landing themselves and claim the bounty.”

Brienne frowned.  “And then?”

“Then,” Jaime took a breath.  This was where it got hazy. “Then he somehow escapes his cell and opens the postern gate to let the rest of us sneak in.”

“And Bronn volunteered to do this?”

“It was his idea,” Jaime answered.

“Who will play the bounty hunter?”

“They would recognize me,” Jaime said.  “And it really should be someone who is strong with a sword.”  Jaime could acknowledge that he was mediocre at best with his left, but at least he’d improved enough to no longer a liability to those around him.  And using his new armor for his right arm was becoming intuitive.

“I will take him,” Brienne said.

“You’re also too recognizable.  Word has spread about you, Brienne,” Jaime said softly.  “The tall, blonde lady knight. If they were to realize who you were, it would ruin the ruse.”

“Well, that rules out Edmure as well.”  She furrowed her brow as she thought about her next words.  “Podrick could do it.” She spoke heavily, as if she was reluctant to let him.

“I think so too,” Jaime agreed.  But they needed more of a plan than that.  They could stage a diversion, have some Lannister bowmen attack the southern castle while Bronn let them into the northern one.  It could work, but then how would they take the southern castle? He told Brienne his thoughts.

“That could work.  Do you suppose there are plans for the Twins here?  The Tullys are their lords paramount. Perhaps there is some record of the layout of the castles kept here.”

“Edmure will know if there is.  I’m going to go find him now. I’ll see you in a few hours,” Jaime said and set off to find Edmure.

 

They met in Hoster Tully’s old solar.  Jaime supposed he should think of it as Edmure’s solar, but he was stuck in his ways.  The solar occupied the upper corner of the keep that marked the point where the Tumblestone and the Red Fork converged.  It was an impressive view. Jaime could see far off down the Red Fork until it turned around a bend in the distance.

Brienne, Bronn, and Podrick were there as well as Edmure.  Within the first few minutes, they agreed that Bronn’s plan was the best they had.  Bronn was confident that he and Podrick could slip the guards and open the postern gate to allow Brienne and a contingent of soldiers to enter.  Bronn had pulled off some seemingly impossible things in the past. Jaime would just have to trust him on this.

“Once you’re in, you’ll have to move fast.  Take the tower, cross the bridge, and enter the southern castle.  Then let the diversionary force in from the south,” Jaime continued.  “The faster we clear the castles, the less likely any of the Mummers will be able to bunker down somewhere,” He leaned over the castle plans and tapped on the southern bridge doors.  “These won’t be locked, will they?”

The group was silent.  Up until then, no one had considered it.  Why would the bridge doors be locked? They wouldn’t be expecting an assault from their own castle.  But however unlikely, it was too much of a chance. Jaime’s stomach lurched at the thought of Brienne trapped on the bridge at the mercy of the Mummers’ archers in the towers.

“Battering ram,” Edmure said.   “The bridge doors are not built to withstand siege weapons.”

“We’ll need shields to protect the ram.  When they see what we are doing, they will rain arrows down on us,” Brienne said.

“Aye.  And we’ll drop these gates here, that will keep them from rushing us from the sides as we move the ram through the northern castle,” Bronn said.  He pointed to the gates lining the main corridor that ran down the length of the castle, ending at the bridge. “If we funnel them down through just one door, we can hold them back with a few swords and some good crossbowmen.”

“Perhaps Ser Jaime and I should lead the diversionary force.  The Mummers will have gotten wind of our alliance. What better to distract them than the Golden Lion of Lannister?” Edmure asked with a dark flourish to his words.  Jaime rolled his eyes but Bronn let out a low chuckle. Edmure continued. “Then, once you’ve infiltrated the southern castle, open the main gate for us.”

“Are we in agreement?” Jaime asked, looking across the map table.  It was as solid of a plan as he could have hoped for. They each nodded back to him.

“Alright.  It’s late,” Edmure said resignedly.  “We’ll organize the men tomorrow.”

“Your team should have first pick,” Jaime said to Bronn.  Bronn knew the best swords in the Lannister army, and his team would need them.

Bronn nodded, then they slowly started to filter out of the solar.

“Ser Jaime, one more thing,” Edmure said, catching his arm, grabbing his stump unintentionally.  He pulled his hand back. “Apologies,” he muttered.

“It’s fine,” Jaime said.  “What is it?”

“I’ve commissioned my builders to construct a scorpion, more than one if they can manage it.  And I’ve instructed the maester here to gather whatever dragonglass he can find and begin production of missiles tipped with it.”

 _For the wight dragon._ Just when Jaime had thought there could be nothing worse than the living, breathing nightmare that was Drogon, an undead dragon had come into play.  Jaime was impressed at Edmure’s forethought.

“That was good thinking,” Jaime replied and Edmure seemed to light up at the compliment, but he then quickly schooled his features back to those of a brick wall.

“I’ll see you in the morning to organize the men,” Edmure said, then Jaime left him in his solar.

 

He found Brienne waiting for him at the top of the stone steps that lead back to the main floor of the castle.  She watched him approach with an unreadable expression, but when he drew close to her, she turned towards him, letting their shoulders brush.

“Are you tired?” he asked.

“Not really,” she replied.

“Come, let’s go for a walk.”  He wanted to take her hand but he wasn’t sure she would allow it.  Instead, he fell into step beside her as they descended the stairs and he lead her toward the front of the castle.

“What do you think of this plan?” he asked her.  They walked shoulder to shoulder, hers nearly as broad as his.  At a distance they no doubt looked like two knights in a strategic conversation.

“I’m quite confident in it, actually.  When the Mummers see you and Edmure outside the southern castle with your lines of archers, they will not be expecting subterfuge from the north.”

Jaime nodded.  When she put it that plainly, it seemed like less crazy of a plan.  He reached a case of stone steps set into the outer wall of the castle and led Brienne up them.  The wooden door at the top of the steps opened up to the battlements outside, the same battlements he’d been standing on when he caught sight of Brienne and Podrick in their little rowboat, escaping Riverrun after the siege.

“What a beautiful view,” Brienne said as she leaned upon the crenellations and gazed down the Red Fork.  Jaime moved in to stand next to her, resting his elbows and taking in the wintry landscape. The sky was clear tonight, with a sprinkling of stars overhead.  The full moon loomed on the horizon and cast a ghostly white light on the river. The sound of the water lapping against the frozen shore was hypnotic.

“You saw me, didn’t you?” Jaime asked.  He’d swore at the time that he’d seen her wave back, but he never really knew for sure.

“Yes,” she answered.  “I thought perhaps that would be the last time I would ever see you.”

“We’ve had too many of those goodbyes,” he said and turned to look at her.  Her skin was pale and almost ethereal in the moonlight. “I would marry you, you know.”  He hated the way his voice trembled in his own ears. Not that he could much hear it anyway over the pounding of his own heart.

Brienne turned to look at him, her face unreadable.

“If you would have me,” he continued nervously.  “And if not, I only ask that you allow me to love you and warm your bed for the rest of our lives.”

Her chin quivered and her brows knit together.  She swallowed hard before she spoke. “If I were to ever marry anyone, it would be you.”

 _Good enough._  He took her hand in his and gave her a mischievous smile.  “I’m not sure if you’re aware, but there _is_ a sept here.”

“I’m well aware,” she replied, but smiled shyly and squeezed his hand.  “I think I’m getting tired now. Should we go to bed?”

“Whatever my lady desires,” he said and led her back down the stairs and into the castle.  He saw Ser Terren and one of the Tully commanders come around the corner and Jaime loosened his grip on Brienne’s hand, just a bit in case she wanted to pull her hand away.  But she didn’t, and Ser Terren and the Tully man both nodded to them as they approached.

“Good evening, Ser Jaime.  My Lady Brienne,” Terren said respectfully as he passed.

“Good evening, ser,’ Brienne replied.  Jaime could only nod back to the men, as he was really only able to focus on the fact that Brienne hadn’t let go of his hand.  The commanders certainly saw and word would spread. She may not be ready to marry him, but this was a step forward.

Once they reached her room, they shed their clothes and climbed into bed together.  He pulled her close and trailed his hand down her back, massaging as he moved down her spine.  Of course he would have loved to settle between her thighs again, but he would be content to just sleep with her in his arms.  However, as their caresses grew less innocent and their lips met, his cock was becoming less content. And she must not have been _that_ tired, because after a little guidance and encouragement from him, she climbed on top and rode him for all he was worth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooo, I think Brienne likes sex :D I hope you enjoyed, and thanks for reading!
> 
> Coming up next is a Winterfell chapter starring Sandor Clegane. Then after that it might take a little longer for the following chapter b/c its going to be about what happens at the Twins. I think I need to post it all as one long chapter so it doesn't get choppy or difficult to follow :)
> 
> Thank you ITC for the beta!!


	21. Somewhere in the Fucking Neck

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you ITC for constantly fixing my ridiculous grammar among other things :D

**Somewhere in the Fucking Neck**

 

The Neck.  What a shithole.  Sandor had been riding through it for nearly a week now.  And as if it wasn’t difficult enough to navigate in the summertime, the winter only made it worse.    The narrow paths that wove through the murky swamp were now covered beneath a layer of snow, and beneath the snow was either ice, hard as stone, or slush that his horse sank into nearly up to her knees.

Even if he’d been able to stay on the Kingsroad, it would have been tough going.  But the Kingsroad was too dangerous here, even for him. In Farimarket, he’d been warned to stay off the main thoroughfare because of the marauding packs of bandits.  The twisting paths of the crannogmen were safe enough, though. Greywater Watch had seen to that. Sandor saw no fewer than twenty bodies hanging in the trees, bandits with warnings hung around their necks.  The crannogmen were a bizarre, little people that crept around in the swamps and, truth be told, they made Sandor’s skin crawl. But he’d seen neither hide nor hair of any of them, so for whatever reason, they were letting him pass through unmolested.

The three little direwolves had grown so much in such a short time that he had to split them up among three bags now.  They were big enough to let them run free next to his horse, but it was too dangerous in these swamps. The pups would be in over their heads in some of the patches of slushy mire.  The red one was calm and sweet, and she would rub up on his hand when he fed her. The black one was constantly nibbling at his fingers, feigning innocence until she would suddenly sink her teeth into his wrist.  Not hard enough to do much damage, but enough to draw blood. And then there was the grey one. She would have lived in his beard if he’d allowed it. She slept at his shoulder at night, and had even tried to crawl into his shirt beneath the furs once.

It would have almost been annoying, but the grey wolf had grown on him and he found he liked the attention.  He knew the red one was for his little bird just by the wolf’s demeanor alone. The fox red color of her fur only confirmed it.  The black one was clearly for Arya. The little bitch was feisty and thought herself bigger than she was, and Sandor had had to chase away a badger that she’d been trying to scrap with back near Fairmarket.  The grey could only be for Bran; Brienne had told him of his return.

He rejoined the Kingsroad just north of Moat Cailin.  He let the wolves run free during the daylight hours. They scampered next to his horse and darted in and out of the snowbanks that lined the road.  That night, he treated himself to a stay at an inn. The place was deserted except for the innkeep and her three daughters. The village itself was a ghost town.  The women at the inn told him that the villagers had left for White Harbor, seeking the safety of a large city.

“Then why are you lot still here?” he asked as he stuffed his mouth full of beef stew which was not near as good as Fiona’s.  The beef was chewy and the broth too salty, but since when did he give a shit about what food tasted like?

“Saving up for passage to Braavos,” the innkeep replied in a defensive tone.  She must have thought he’d judge her for leaving her homeland, but he couldn’t give two fucks what she did with herself.  It was a smart move, actually. She and her daughters would just be more mouths to feed, and since none of them was built like Brienne of Tarth, they would be useless in the battles ahead.  He wondered how she was faring and if the Kingslayer was living up to her expectations. He had a feeling that Brienne of Tarth would be a handful beneath the furs. Not that he would ever find out.

The women had allowed the direwolves in too.  They took it as an auspicious sign from the old gods.  The pups where nearly as big as full grown dogs now, and the innkeep’s daughters were playing with them near the fire and feeding them bits of beef and carrots.  The black one was not biting any of them, he noticed with irritation. That was something special just for him.

“You ride for Winterfell in the morning?” the innkeep asked as she refilled his mug with ale.  His third or possibly fourth mugful, he couldn’t remember for certain. But he was feeling drunk.

“Aye.  And you should ride for White Harbor.  I’ve seen the dead walking,” he growled.  “I’ll pay you and your girls’ fares.” Gold would be useless where he was going anyway.  Only Valyrian steel and dragonglass would hold any value. What he wouldn’t give for a Valyrian sword.  At least he still had the dragonglass weapon from his mission beyond the Wall.

The innkeep’s eyes widened in shock.  “Ser, you are too kind. You mean it, truly?”

Sandor slapped a handful of dragons onto the bartop.  “I mean it. Now go get my room ready, I’m tired.”

He fell asleep that night with the grey pup nestled at his shoulder and wishing that he was back at the Inn of the Kneeling Man.

 

The next morning, the innkeep and her daughters saw to it that he had a hearty breakfast and supplied him well for the last leg of his journey.  The innkeep must not have told her daughters yet of his generosity, and he was thankful for that. He wouldn’t have been able to stand three little women mooning over him like he was some brave knight.

As the girls said their goodbyes to the direwolf pups, the innkeep drew close to him.

“I would tell you something of Winterfell before you go.”  She spoke gravely, in a whisper as if the trees themselves had ears that would hear her speak ill of the Starks.

“Go on,” Sandor prodded.

“Some say the Stark sisters have gone mad.  They say the younger one wears the skins of the men she’s killed, and that she was the one who poisoned all of House Frey.  And the older one ordered a man executed in the middle of their own hall. She had his throat slit as he begged for his life. That was not Lord Stark’s way.”  The woman had tears in her eyes, so pained was she at the thought of speaking ill of Sansa and Arya.

“No, that was not his way.”  Sandor had no love for Littlefinger or the Freys.  In fact he had very little love for most people. But for whatever fucking reason, he loved the Stark sisters and he felt it was his duty to protect them, even from themselves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little check-in with Sandor before he gets to Winterfell. It's a bit short, I apologize, but more to come soon - Sansa POV at Winterfell plus Tyrion (it will probably be a split chapter between the two of them), then its Twins time! Thanks so much for reading!


	22. Winterfell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you ITC for beta!

**Winterfell**

 

Jon stood dark and silent at the side of the great hall as Daenerys Targaryen entered, flanked by an Unsullied on one side and a dark skinned woman with curls as black as a raven’s wing on the other.  Daenerys wore robes of soft white fur with a trim of feathers around the neck that regally framed her beautiful face. She also wore a pair of battered old riding boots that peeked out from beneath her robes as she walked.   _Interesting,_ Sansa thought.  Ser Davos trailed in behind them, having just arrived on dragon back with Daenerys.  His was face unreadable and his mannerisms aloof until he saw Jon and immediately went to his side.

“My Queen,” Tyrion said and bowed to her as she entered.  The simpering tone of his words irritated Sansa. She wondered briefly if he would be groveling like this if he was still her lord husband.  She misliked it enough as it was. She watched his expression carefully, looking for any tell that would give her a hint of his true feelings.  But for now, he gave nothing away.

The Vale lords, northern lords, and wildings watched Daenerys walk confidently to the middle of the hall.  Sansa stood on the dais with Arya by her side and Bran seated back further in the shadows.

“Queen Daenerys Targaryen, first of her name, rightful heir to the Iron Throne-” the dark skinned girl announced, and then carried on for what seemed to be minutes, stating title after title.  Sansa was surprised that the girl didn’t run out of breath halfway through.

“Her eyebrows are ridiculous,” Arya muttered next to her.

“Arya, shut up,” Sansa murmured back, trying not the move her lips too much.  Her eyebrows were rather prominent, Sansa had to agree. And Daenerys was much shorter than Sansa had expected.  She was beautiful, no doubt, but overall, Sansa had not pictured the last Targaryen to look like this. All of these things were petty notions, however, and of no real impact.

Sansa set her jaw; Jon had told her what she needed to do.  She descended from the dais and curtsied low, making sure to keep her shoulders square and strong while letting her skirts sweep gracefully around her.  Arya attempted a shambling curtsy next to her. She nearly tripped over her own feet, and Sansa stole a look at Jon and saw that he was failing at holding back a fond smile.

“My Queen, Winterfell is yours,” Sansa said.  She could have thrown up right there, but she’d been through worse.  And in this, she needed to trust Jon, at least for the time being. They had no choice but to submit to Daenerys’ rule.  Her dragons would be two of the greatest weapons against the army of the dead. The beasts were currently crammed into the Godswood, clustered around the hot springs in an attempt to keep warm.  They reminded Sansa of dogs piled up together before a hearth. She stopped her mind from wandering to Lady.

“Rise,” Daenerys said.  She smiled but it didn’t reach her eyes.  Those remained hard. “I am honored to be here at Winterfell, the seat of House Stark, Wardens of the North and,” she paused and passed her gaze across them all, from Arya to Sansa and then even finding Bran tucked in the corner, “ _once again_ loyal subjects of House Targaryen.”

“You’ve had a long journey, My Queen,” Sansa stated politely.  “If it pleases you, our castellan will see you to your rooms.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Jon piped up from the corner.  “I will take her there.”

Arya quirked a brow and then had to press her lips together to keep her face straight.

“Thank you,” Sansa ground out.  What the hells was this now? She gave Jon a questioning look and his cheeks flushed pink.  Then he led Daenerys from the hall and into the keep.

“Are you fucking _kidding me?_ ” Arya hissed next to her.  “When did they even have time to fuck anyway?  I thought they were fighting dead men and falling into the ice and getting fucking spears thrown at them?”  She was waving her arms around theatrically.

“Would you stop saying ‘fuck’ Arya?” Sansa finally snipped.  She couldn’t think with her sister jabbering in her ear. Too many things were happening at once.  Tyrion had been pushing hard for a retreat to the Riverlands, but Sansa had thought Jon would be on her side in resisting.  They’d finally taken Winterfell back and she couldn’t leave it again. But now that Daenerys had Jon warming her bed, would that change his opinion on matters?

“Lord Tyrion,” Sansa called.

Tyrion approached her, his face apprehensive.  He’d known about Jon and Daenerys but hadn’t told her.  She could tell by the way he was bracing himself for a berating.

“Lady Sansa, Lady Arya,” he said.  “How can I be of service to you?”

“Jon’s fucking Daenerys, isn’t he?” Arya blurted out.

Tyrion’s face went vacant as a mask.  “I wouldn’t know. It is not the Hand’s duty to know what company _Her Grace_ keeps behind closed doors.”  He was irritated and obviously lying.  Sansa had been around him enough to know that this was the face he made when he did so.

“I didn’t call you over here for confirmation.  I’m not stupid. I know they are.” Sansa’s mood was darkening, and Queen Cersei’s words crept into her mind.   _A woman’s weapon is between her legs._  It only heightened her concern as Daenerys had a hold over Jon now that neither she nor Arya would capable of breaking.  They were family, and unlike some people, they didn’t fuck their siblings. “We aren’t leaving Winterfell.”

Tyrion sighed.  “My Lady, I know that this is difficult for you but believe me when I say that I would never suggest it if I didn't think it was absolutely necessary.  The army of the dead is is marching ceaselessly.”

It was true.  They’d plowed through the Gift and ravaged the Last Hearth.  Some of the lords had thought they would stop there to regroup their forces, but they hadn’t.  They just kept coming and the most recent scouting reports put them close to the northern shore of Long Lake.

Sansa wanted to smash something.  She wanted to scream. But she was a Stark, so she steeled herself and gave Tyrion the most cutting, loathsome look she could muster.

“I will see you at the war council this evening, Lord Tyrion.  Good day.”

Arya gave him a menacing little smile and Tyrion’s face fell just a bit.

“Alright, until then, my ladies,” he replied and walked away.  Sansa watched him make his way toward one of the side doors of the great hall and then Lord Varys approached him.  Tyrion gave some instruction to one of the serving women and then he and Varys left together.

“Shall I see what they are up to?” Arya asked.  “I’ve been known to dress as a serving girl.” Her eyes danced with mischief, and Sansa knew that she had more than just the outfit of a serving girl.  She had the face as well...somewhere.

“Yes,” Sansa replied.  Bran’s sight was useful, but unfortunately he could not be counted on to watch anything specific.  Oftentimes, he was lost in a dream of some moment far away, both in distance and in time. And when Arya left her side, she found herself standing alone in the emptying hall.

A chill ran down her spine and she suddenly felt vulnerable without Arya or Jon next to her.  Littlefinger and his scheming were no more, but there were always more threats. And she held no delusions about this Targaryen.  She was the spawn of the man who had burned her grandfather alive in his own armor while he’d made her uncle Brandon watch, strangling himself in his efforts to save him.  Bran had seen it in his dreams. He’d smelled it. He’d smelled their grandfather roasting.

But she also knew that her dragons were not invincible.  One was already dead, and if the tales were true, Ser Jaime and Ser Bronn had nearly killed another one.  The big, black one. Drogon. It must have been a spectacular battle. Jaime charging across the burning field on a white steed, lance couched in his arm.  She was certain she’d seen a picture just like it in a book of fairy tales she’d loved as a child.

It was no small wonder Brienne was in love with him.

Speaking of Brienne, she needed her sworn sword at her side.  Why was she not back yet? Or Podrick? Her heart skipped a beat at the thought of the squire.  When he’d departed for King’s Landing, she’d thought perhaps he would kiss her. She’d even pinched her cheeks and brushed out her hair before she saw him and Brienne off.  But no, he’d left her with nothing more than an awkward goodbye, tripping over his own tongue as he spoke.

She’d known of Podrick since her time in King’s Landing, but had not actually taken note of him until later, when he and Brienne had saved her from the Bolton men.  Brienne had charged in like stormfront, snarling and slashing, destroying everything in her path. In that moment she’d looked like the Hound, or even the Mountain, and it had scared Sansa.  But Podrick was calm. He was clearly the lesser skilled of the two, but he’d methodically taken out some men and then was focused enough after to help her say her words as she accepted Brienne into her service.  Podrick reminded her a bit of Jon. While Theon and Robb would be brash and boastful in the practice yard growing up, Jon had always been a man of few words. She enjoyed watching Podrick spar, even if it was under the guise of watching her sworn sword, Brienne, at work.

She slipped out of the great hall and wove her way into the dark corridors of the castle.  There had been no word from the Riverlands since the raven had come bearing the news that her Uncle Edmure had been reinstated as the lord there. Maester Wolkan would know if there had been anything more.

She was nearly to the rookery when she rounded a corner and slammed right into a brick wall.  Where the hells had that come from? It shouldn’t have been there.

“Careful, little bird,” the wall said.  But it was no wall at all, it just felt like one, and she tripped backwards over her skirts.  The Hound reached out and grabbed her arm, catching her as she fell. He stood her back upright, as if she were a vase he’d just knocked over.  She looked up at him and an overwhelming sense of relief came over her. Her throat clenched and she had to bite her tongue to keep from crying.

“Ah, fuck.  What’s wrong?” he growled as he shifted the strap of a large saddlebag on his shoulder.  He had three of them, and whatever was in them, it must have been heavy because even he was struggling under its weight.

“Nothing’s wrong,” she answered.  No, in fact she had a strong feeling that everything would be alright now.  Questions flooded her head, but she couldn’t put them to words yet.

He let out a cracking laugh.  “I doubt that. I heard your sister is here.”

“I think nearly everyone is here,” Sansa quipped.

“Not your lady knight.  I ran into her on the road.  The Kingslayer too, and that sellsword.”

“Ser Bronn, you mean.  Was anyone else with them?”  What had happened to Podrick?  What if he was still in King’s Landing?  Surely Brienne would have told her that in the message she’d sent from Riverrun.

The Hound was watching her internal panic play out on her face, and then he smiled a knowing, indecent grin.  She felt heat rise to her cheeks.

“You want to know where that little squire is,” he said.  “He’s got you all hot and bothered, has he? Doubt he was man enough to do anything about it.  Seems dimwitted to me.”

So he had seen Podrick.  Sansa let out a sigh of relief and then one of the saddlebags started to move.  She jumped back, alarmed. “What’s in there?” she asked.

The Hound took the bags one by one off his shoulder and placed them on the stone floor.  The other two bags began to move around as well, and then one barked and Sansa nearly jumped out of her skin.

“Here,” he said and knelt to open one of the bags.  Something bounded out and at first glimpse she thought it was a fox by the color, but then she saw that it was a direwolf, as big as a large dog, but it still had the clumsy movements of a pup.

It was the prettiest thing she’d ever seen.

She knelt down in the hall, settling back to sit on her heels and the pup crashed into her chest, nearly knocking her over with licks and face rubs.  She was so soft and her fur was the brilliant orange of sunrise, like fire. And somehow she knew she was a female before she’d even had a chance to look properly.  Sansa kissed the wolf’s muzzle and buried her face into the scruff of her neck. She smelled like Lady.

The Hound opened the other bags and two more pups sprang out.  A slate grey one that matched the stonework of the floor and one black as the crypts.  Sansa barely saw that one before it took off at a sprint down the hallway.

“Bloody fucking hells,” the Hound grumbled.  He was about to go after the black one but the grey pup was jumping up at him over and over as if it was spring loaded.  Then it slammed its body down on the floor and rolled over onto its back, presenting itself urgently for belly rubs.

“Don’t worry, it can’t get far,” Sansa said as she stood up, holding her pup like a baby in her arms.  She was heavy, but Sansa didn’t mind. She loved her already, and relished the feel of the pup’s heart beat, of her barrel chest rising and falling against her own.

Then they heard a shriek of delight echo down the corridor, followed by some frantic yipping and scrambling of claws and boots on stone.  Arya came sprinting around the corner, the black pup in her arms the way one would carry a sack of flour, a look of utter joy on her face.

“Sansa!  You won’t believe what I found--” Arya began, then stopped cold in her tracks.  She stared at the Hound, and he stared right back, and that’s when Sansa remembered the story of the last time Arya had seen him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried my best to get into Sansa's head while jamming some Podrick feels in there - I hope it doesn't seem too forced. I guess I think Podrick might be appealing to her for some of those reasons she thinks about. He's a little Ned-esque too, as far as being calm and deliberate, but I didn't think Sansa would think that because I don't know that anyone can compare to her father for her. 
> 
> Brienne only scares Sansa initially b/c she is such a raging bad ass, and obviously now Sansa trusts her completely.
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed!


	23. Winterfell (part two)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of the last chapter, Sansa and Arya and the Hound.
> 
> Warning - rape mentioned but it's pretty brief.

**Winterfell (part two)**

 

Sansa could have sworn that time came to stop as Arya and the Hound stared at one another.  She scooped up her direwolf pup and held her close to her chest. Even the enthusiastic pup became still, sensing Sansa’s own apprehension.

“Why are you here?” Arya asked finally.

The Hound didn’t say anything.  The grey pup was still leaping up at him, begging for attention, and he grumpily picked it up and tucked it under one arm.  In the silence, Sansa could hear the faint clanging of swords as the men practiced in the yard far away.

“I had a dream about you,” Arya continued in her strange, abrupt voice.

“I had one about you, too,” the Hound growled, his face twisted into a scowl.  “You had someone else’s face though. So you think you’re some stone cold killer now, is that it?”

Sansa saw face pale in surprise at the Hound calling out her secret, and then Sansa had to intervene.  “Not here,” she hissed. There were ears everywhere. “Come, to Father’s solar. Bran is there too.”

“Good, I can be rid of this mongrel,” the Hound said.  The grey pup wiggled wildly under his arm, desperately trying to lick him anywhere his skin was exposed, and Sansa had to press her lips together to keep from smiling.

 

Bran sat in his chair near the hearth, his eyes were their normal brown color, and he turned to look up at them as Sansa, Arya and the Hound traipsed in with the pups in tow.  Once the door was closed behind them, they put the pups down and all three scampered over to Bran.

“Sandor,” Bran said.  “Thank you for bringing the wolves to Winterfell.  Please say what you need to say to my sisters. This is a safe place--no one is listening.”

Sansa looked over at the Hound who suddenly appeared nervous now that he was put on the spot.

“Well, I heard about what you two did to Littlefinger.  I would have loved to see it for myself. Hated that little cunt.  But you’re scaring the smallfolk. Some of them think you’ve both gone mad.”

“Littlefinger put a knife to our father’s throat.  He betrayed our father and got him killed,” Arya replied.  “Littlefinger got what he deserved.”

“He deserved to die, but you can’t go cutting people open in the middle of your great hall.  You’re father wouldn’t have done that. Get yourself a headsman so you can do it proper. You two want to be known as the Mad Queens?”

_ No, our father wouldn’t have do that.  He was honorable to a fault, and he died for it. _  But the Hound wasn’t finished.

“And I know what you did at the Twins,” the Hound said and pointed an accusing finger at Arya.

“The Freys slaughtered our family,” Sansa ground out between clenched teeth.  Whose side was he on anyway?

“I watched every last one of them fall to the ground dead, and I’d do it again!” Arya yelled.  Her face was red and her eyes full of fire. Even her little black pup had its teeth bared.

“I don’t give a bloody fuck about that,” the Hound growled, raising his own voice.  At his feet, the grey pup tucked its tail between its legs. “But do you realize that by killing all the able-bodied men, you left behind a strategic castle full of defenseless women and children?  The Bloody fucking Mummers hold that castle now, and do you think they give a shit about the children? What do you think they are doing to all those women? Beating them, raping them-”

Sansa’s stomach lurched and she stumbled to sit on the bed but didn’t quite make it.  Ramsay was suddenly here, rising from some dark recess of her mind, the place she tried to stow him away.  She could feel her wedding dress rending behind her and then a sharp pain in her belly, followed by the iron smell of blood.

“Sansa?”  Arya’s voice, high-pitched and concerned broke into her thoughts, and then she felt strong arms around her, scooping her up off the floor.  The Hound smelled like leather and the outdoors, and she felt safe in his arms. Why had she not gone with him so long ago? He’d frightened her back then, but he was different now.  He was a rock, sturdy and powerful.

He put her on the bed and then Arya wrapped her arms around her, one hand stroking her head.  Sansa shivered and closed her eyes tight, willing herself out of that black abyss. The Hound spoke deep, rumbling words to her.  Words of comfort, though she wasn’t quite able to process them yet. Her trembling subsided and she took a deep breath and grabbed Arya’s hand in thanks, then looked at the Hound.

He was kneeling down before them and then he placed his sword on the ground, offering himself to them, just as Brienne had done in the Wolfswood years ago.

“Say the words, Arya,” Bran murmured from his place by the fire.

Sansa watched the Hound’s face as Arya, with some help from Bran, accepted him into the service of House Stark.

 

They took their evening meal, just the four of them, in the solar.  Sansa ordered scraps brought up for the pups as well, though Arya kept feeding them off her own plate.  Sansa was happy to see the tension between Arya and the Hound ebb away. Lady Brienne was of mutual interest to them, so it gave them something to talk about.

“You sparred with Brienne?”  The Hound laughed. “How did that work out for you?”

“It was going well until she kicked me into the dirt,” Arya replied with a mouth full of biscuit.   “Ended in a draw.”

The Hound nodded.  “Better than the time I fought her.”  Then he looked down at his plate, as if he instantly regretted bringing it up.  It had been just after that fight that Arya had left him to die.

Arya’s face softened, and she put a hand on his knee.  “I’m sorry I didn’t kill you,” she said. It was not a regret, but an apology, though it was perhaps the strangest one Sansa had ever heard.

The Hound nodded.  “It’s alright, little she wolf.  I’m glad you didn’t.”

They ate in silence for a time, the yipping and scampering of the pups the only noise in the room.  The sound calmed Sansa; it reminded her of happier times, back when she’d first gotten Lady. She smiled wistfully as she watched the grey pup lick grease from the Hound’s beefy, nicked up fingers.

“Have you thought of a name for yours yet?” Arya asked, looking at the pups as well.

“Not yet,” Sansa replied.

“What about you, Bran?” Arya asked their brother.  He’d been quiet, but he’d also been present the whole time, his deep brown eyes never once shifting to white.  He’d even smiled when the pups had first charged into the room and enthusiastically greeted him. It gave Sansa hope that at least some of Bran was still in there.

“The grey one is not for me,” he said matter-of-factly.  “I have no need for a wolf anymore.”

“Who is it for then?” Sansa prodded, confused.. 

“It’s for your daughter.”  And now Bran was looking at no one, and his eyes had shifted over to a cloudy white.  He was gone for now.

Arya whirled to face her, and their eyes met.

“How could you not tell me?” they each spoke at the same time.

“What? I’m not pregnant!” Arya exclaimed.  “You have to be fucking someone to be pregnant.  Who are  _ you _ fucking, Sansa?”

“I’m not pregnant either,” Sansa said, and she felt heat rising to her cheeks.  She would have  _ liked  _ to have been sleeping with Pod, but that hadn’t happened yet, and the thought of it made heat rise up in her belly.

“Then who…?” Arya said, and then they both turned to the Hound, who was just standing there and he was so red in the face he looked like he was sunburned.  At first, Sansa thought that perhaps all the talk of fucking had made him uncomfortable, but then Bran’s vocie rang out, and he was back just as quickly as he’d gone.

“Your daughter, Sandor.  She’s still in the waters of her mother’s womb, but this direwolf is for her.”

The Hound’s mouth fell slack open, and Sansa saw the apple of his throat bob once, then twice, before he could speak.

“If the pup’s for my daughter,” he began, his voice hoarse, “then why is it all over  _ me?” _  Even now, the grey pup was curled at his feet, her furry head resting on the toe of one of his boots.

“Though your daughter has yet to take her first breath in this world, she already loves you.”

Sansa felt tears begin to pool in her eyes,  The Hound knelt down next to the grey pup and scratched it behind the ear, no doubt in an attempt to hide his own emotion.  Arya just smiled and looked at him, then let out a little giggle.

“So who have  _ you _ been fucking, Papa Sandor?” she asked.

 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

 

Arya dressed as a serving girl just as she and Sansa had discussed.  She hadn’t worn this face since she’d been at the Twins, pouring wine for Walder Frey.  Tyrion and Varys spoke of relatively mundane things for a time, and Arya was beginning to wonder if this ruse was even worth her while, but then the conversation shifted to Sansa.  

“Sansa is...wary.  She’s tired of being a pawn in someone else’s game.  Tired of people tearing her family apart.” Tyrion took a sip of the wine Arya’d poured, curled up his lip at the taste, then shrugged and drank more.  “She’s seen ambition and the thirst for power too many times to not recognize it now.”

“Her Grace is the rightful heir to the throne,” Varys replied.  “ _ Someone _ must rule this land.  Who does Sansa want to see as her king or queen?  Or will she submit to no one?”

Tyrion sighed.  “I don’t know. But in a roundabout way, Daenerys and her dragons are responsible for the collapse of a portion of the Wall.  And because of that, Sansa is being forced to abandon her ancestral home.”

Arya felt her heart sink into her stomach.  So it was decided then--they would evacuate to the Riverlands.  But what about the Golden Company? The North would be stuck between two marching armies and forced to fight a war on both fronts.

“I fear it may not matter much longer what Lady Sansa desires.  Once Her Grace has wed Jon Snow, she will name him Lord of Winterfell and put Sansa and Arya aside.”

“They will never agree to that.”

“You’d be surprised at what people will agree to when their only alternative is death by dragonfire.”

“True.  But they may be slow learners,” Tyrion said and spun his cup in his hand.

“Just as Ned Stark was.  And look where that got him,” Varys drawled.  Arya was clenching her jaw so hard she thought her teeth would shatter, but she kept the face she wore blank as slate.  She needed to finish serving and get away from them before she cut both their throats at the table. That would be too risky, even for her.

“You have the same tell as your father did,” Varys said, looking at Tyrion.

“Indeed.  Her face goes stark white and ashen,” Tyrion replied and turned to look right at her.  A surge of adrenaline raced through her--she knew she was found out. She reached for the pitcher, intending to smash one of them over the head.  Probably Varys first--Tyrion couldn’t run as fast.

“Please, Lady Arya,” Tyrion held up his hands and his eyes danced as he looked at her.  He was...smiling? “Lord Varys and I have only been speaking so crudely in order to rile you up so you would expose yourself.  We have urgent need of your services.”

Varys was calm and collected, and he looked as if he could not have cared less whether she smashed the pitcher on his heard.  “Yes, you have a particular skill set that would be very useful to us.”

Her options were limited, and Sansa for whatever reason trusted Tyrion, so she pulled off her face and sighed.  The reaction of the two men pleased her. Tyrion jerked back in his chair with a gasp, and Varys’ eyes widened in astonishment, his fine eyebrows raised to his nonexistent hairline.

“Fine, what do you want me to do?” Arya sighed and put her hands on her hips.

“Come to Essos with me,” Varys said.  “Bring your Hound. Together, we can stop the Golden Company from ever reaching Westeros.”

“Don’t you want to come along?” Arya asked Tyrion.  “Or would you rather sit in a castle in the Riverlands and eat up rations that could be feeding able bodied soldiers?”  That was a little harsher than she’d intended, but Tyrion only grimaced.

“No, Lady Arya,” Tyrion said gravely, “I will be going to King’s Landing to see my sister.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much ITC for the beta!
> 
> The next chapter will be the Twins battle for sure. I've got it plotted out but it might take me a bit to get it all put together. Thanks so much for reading :D


	24. Seagard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bronn POV in which they finally reach the Twins.
> 
> This thing was a train wreck of grammar and spelling errors, so thank you so much ITC for the beta!

**Seagard**

 

There were two places in Westeros that made Bronn feel incredibly small.  North of the Wall, with that behemoth of ice at his back and the Haunted Forest spread out before him, deep and black and neverending, was one of them.  The other was here, on the cliffs overlooking the Giant’s Beach at Seagard. The beach below seemed to stretch on for miles before the waves began crashing against the shore, huge whitecaps rolling in from beyond where his eye could see.  An enormous stone stood lone and proud out there, jutting up from the waves, taller than the greatest castles of Westeros. It was so big it was said that one of the gods themselves had dropped it there. It was called The Whetstone, and the view never failed to give him goosebumps.

“It’s beautiful,” Podrick remarked from where he stood at Bronn’s side.

“It’s unlike any place I’ve ever seen,” Brienne added, her voice softer than usual, like an awestruck child’s.

Far out in the bay, a Mallister dreadnaught cruised into sight, flying a blue flag with a silver eagle emblazoned upon it.  House Mallister of Seagard had been tasked with patrolling Ironman’s Bay for centuries, ever since the castle was built. Lord Jason Mallister was no doubt expecting an attack from the Iron Islands.  Little did he know that the entirety of the Iron Fleet was on its way to Essos. Jaime and the Trout were meeting with Mallister in Seagard now. They expected Mallister would swear fealty to Riverrun and his new Lord Paramount without question, and Jaime hoped to procure some of his cavalry to aid in the taking of the Twins.

Bronn, Podrick, and Brienne, along with their squad of men that would infiltrate the Twins from the north had stayed back.  Bronn couldn’t be seen traveling to the Twins with Jaime, and neither could Pod. It would risk word getting to the Mummers and then the ruse would be blown.  And Brienne had stubbornly refused Jaime’s offer to sleep in the castle. She’d said she would stay with her men in the woods instead. No doubt Jaime’s cock had been disappointed by that, but Bronn had to give her credit.  It was a smart decision, and it made the men respect her more as a leader.

In fact, Bronn was impressed with the professional conduct of the two of them.  They’d barely touched one another since leaving Riverrun, and Brienne had been as quick as ever to argue with Jaime about strategy or map reading.  Bronn had been able to just sit back and enjoy the ride up the coastal road from Riverrun, relieved of his Lannister-preservation duties, while Brienne kept Jaime in line.  At one point, Bronn had actually wondered if everything was okay between the two of them, but then he’d woken in the night to take a piss and stumbled upon them groping at each other against a tree.

Better Brienne than any other woman.  That’s what Bronn told himself anyway.  At least it wasn’t Jaime’s cunt of a sister, the one who’d put a sizable bounty on Bronn’s head.  The irony was not lost on him that it was because of her bounty that they should be able to take the Twins.  Cersei  _ could _ have been a decent queen--she was smart and knew how to play the game.  And her looks gave her an advantage over most men. They wouldn’t believe a petite, beautiful woman capable of ruling effectively.  But her pride, her drinking, and her lust for power had been her undoing. Her obvious jealousy of any other pretty face that came into court didn’t help matters.  And she was jealous of Jaime, too. Jaime had Cersei’s beauty but also a cock. He could wield a sword and was Tywin Lannister’s heir. Tywin had favored Jaime over his other children, and Bronn sometimes wondered if Cersei slept with Jaime in some twisted attempt to leach some of their father’s love from him.

Bronn shook his head, willing thoughts of the Lannisters from his mind.  They were one fucked up family, and why he was wasting brain cells on them he had no idea.  Jaime was in Seagard, and he was out here with Brienne and Pod and a handful of Lannister marines.  The marines were trained in close-quarters combat and were most often used in naval battle for boarding an enemy ship, but they also worked on land, and their skill set would be particularly useful at the Twins.  Having gotten his fill of the view, Bronn turned away from the cliff and headed back into the forest with Pod and Brienne following behind.

 

They’d set up camp in a clearing among the trunks of the huge conifers that grew in the region.  Some were nearly as big around as the White Sword Tower. Beneath the looming branches, the forest floor was mostly flat with pine cones and a thick bed of needles that muffled footsteps with ferns sprouting up in some spots.  And the weather was mild for winter here. They didn’t have to wear furs, and no snow or frost yet touched the ground. It was something about the way the ocean winds came in from the southern Sunset Sea that kept this region warmer than the inland Riverlands.

Bronn started a smoky fire to keep the bugs and animals at bay while a few of the marines went out on a hunt.  They returned with enough rabbit to feed all of them and then some. Bronn sat with Podrick as he ate the greasy meat.

“You ready for tomorrow, Pod?” Bronn asked.  They would push hard for the Green Fork, ford her, and then he and Pod would go to the northern gate of the Twins sometime after supper.  The Mummers would be drinking by then and with their minds dulled they would be less likely to question Pod’s story.

“I guess.  I’m a pretty good liar.”

“Are you now?  Does your lady knight know this?  I’d have thought she’d have you walking on the straight and narrow.”  Bronn looked over at the squire and saw he was blushing with his eyes focused intently on the leg of rabbit in his hand.  “Well good,” Bronn continued, “you got your story straight?” Pod nodded, his mouth full. “Alright, the less talking the better.  And don’t be nice--you’re a cutthroat bounty hunter just looking for a payday.”

Brienne joined them then, a meager portion of meat in her own hand.  She probably didn’t want to appear entitled in front of the marines. Or maybe she was nervous.  She’d never been in a proper battle before, though this wasn’t really going to be one anyway.

“Not hungry, eh?” Bronn asked her as she sat down.  “Nerves gotcha?”

Brienne was staring at the meat like it repulsed her, her lip curled up, and then she shrugged in response.

“A drink and a good fuck will set you right.  Not too late to meet your golden boy up in the castle,” Bronn went on.  “And I’m passing the torch to you. He’s your problem now.”

“What do you mean?” Brienne asked.

“Let’s just say Jaime has no concept of self-preservation,” Bronn said.

Brienne sighed.  “I know. Gods, do I know.”  And then she smiled a little, staring into the smoky fire, reminiscing on something from the past.

Pod suddenly piped up.  “M’lady, it was Ser Bronn who saved Ser Jaime from the dragon.”

_ Ah, fuck.    _ He should have never told the boy that.  It was one of the more reckless things Bronn had ever done, and he still wasn’t quite sure  _ why _ he had done it.  Though, when he was being completely honest with himself, he knew that it wasn’t because Jaime still owed him a castle.

Brienne’s face softened and the way she was looking at him made Bronn significantly uncomfortable, like she could see something in him she hadn’t seen before.  “You saved him?” she asked.

“He owes me a castle,” Bronn said lightly, then shrugged and stood up from the fire, ending the conversation.

 

They next day, they headed northeast to ford the Green Fork, skirting well around the perimeter the Mummer’s had set up around the Twins.  Pod was quiet, Brienne even more so, and if she didn’t start acting right, the men were going to get nervous. Bronn rode up next to her and bumped his knee into her own, trying to get a reaction from her, some sign of life.

“I don’t know what’s going on up in that blond head of yours, but you’d better set it to rights.  You’ll be leading these men. Half the battle for a commander is inspiring confidence in his troops.”

Brienne looked ashamed, and Bronn could tell she hadn’t thought of it that way before.  She was probably used to people paying her no mind, or simply mocking her, waiting for her to fail.  But the Lannister and Tully troops were so desperate for a leader that they had no qualms over being led by a woman.  As long as it wasn’t Cersei Lannister.

“You’re right,” she said and sat up tall in the saddle.  “I’ve… I’ve never done this before.”

“I know.  But you’ve more than earned it.  You might be the best sword here.  Besides myself, of course,” and he gave her a wink.

“Jaime could have bested us both at the same time with his right,” Brienne said lightly.

Bronn chuckled.  “That’s what he thinks.  I bet you and I would have given him a run for his money.”

Brienne pressed her lips together, trying not to smile.

“Me and Pod are going to split off soon.  You stay back with the men until Jaime and the Trout begin their assault from the south side.  We’ll slip the guards when the castle’s distracted.” He was about to fall back to look for Pod, but he remembered something.  “And one more thing, no armor.” Brienne frowned and was about to protest, but he stopped her short. “We’ve got a lot of stairs to climb, and should things take a bad turn, you don’t want to fall into the river in steel plate.”   _ Jaime would know. _

 

 Bronn and Podrick made it to their position later that evening, just north of the Twins atop a hill that would give them a line of sight down to the castle.  They watched as torches were lit and some of of the guardposts were left unmanned along the crenellations. It was supper time. Bronn could smell the food cooking, and after a time, he could even hear the banging of cups and the clattering of plates on tabletops.

“Alright, Pod,” Bronn said and clapped his hand on the lad’s shoulder.  “That’s our cue.” Pod nodded, but Bronn could see he was jittery. “You handled yourself well at the Battle of the Blackwater--you can handle this too.”  Pod nodded and took a breath, and Bronn added, “This here is the kind of battle in which knights are made.”

Pod looked over at him, his face serious, jaw set.  “I know.” He took the rope that they’d tied around Bronn’s wrists and then they set out for the northern gate.

They made it closer to the castle than Bronn had thought they would before two guards stopped them.  They were young and skinny, younger than Pod by a few years at least. They must have been low-ranking to be put on guard duty during supper, out in the cold night.

One pulled an arakh.  He was a Dothraki with a little nub of a braid at the base of his skull.  “Stop where you are,” he said in broken common tongue. His buddy stood next to him, sword in hand.  He had flaming red hair and looked northern, maybe even of Wildling descent. Bronn caught some movement in the treeline next to the path and spotted another guard squatted there with a large crossbow trained on Pod.

“Why are you here?” the Dothraki asked.

“Got a prisoner I’d like to get off my hands,” Pod said gruffly.  It helped that he was older and broader than these boys; it was giving him courage.  “Bronn of the Blackwater. The Queen’s put a bounty on him. He’s worth a fortune.”

“What’s to stop me from shooting you dead where you stand and taking him for free?” the man in the treeline called down.  It was a fair question. Fortunately, Podrick’s story covered that.

“Ain’t selling him for myself.  I’m traveling him for Lord Reed and getting a cut in return.”

The Dothraki looked confused, as if he had no idea who Lord Reed was.  The Wilding shrugged, but the man in the treeline stood up and dropped his crossbow to his side.  He knew enough to know that when you did business in the Neck, the crannogmen were the last people you wanted to piss off.  They could terrorize you, making all roads impassable, striking from the swamps and vanishing just as quickly.

“Alright, let’s go,” the crossbowman said and led them to the castle.

 

“Who ith thith fine thpethimen?  Lookth like he could be a knight, but then he thpeakth and he’th got the voithe of a low born rat.”  Vargo Hoat paced around Bronn, looking him up and down as he stroked his long goatee. In hindsight, Bronn should have warned Pod about him.  The leader of the Bloody Mummers sounded ridiculous, but he had a shrewd and ruthless mind.

“Bronn of the Blackwater.  Queen’s got a bounty out on him.  900 dragons. She wants him alive,” Pod answered.

The Qohorik let out a hissing laugh and grabbed Bronn’s shoulders, pulling his face close.  The man’s breath stank of rot and ale and Bronn tried not to breathe. “900 dragonth? What could you have pothibly done to make her majethty that irate?  Fuck her brother?”

The room erupted in laughter and Bronn clenched his jaw.

“And how much doeth the ethteemed Lord Reed want me to pay for him?” Hoat asked Pod.

“Half,” Pod answered.

“It’th quite a long way to King’th Landing... “ Hoat said and stroked his beard.  “200 dragonth.”

“Three,’ Pod answered, not missing a beat.

“Done,” Hoat answered, then turned to the guards.  “Now take  _ both _ theeth men to their thell-”

Just then, a huge man with skin black as coal and hair hanging down his back in tight braids ran into the hall.  He wore fine leather armor and carried a warhammer on his back. One of Hoat’s commanders, no doubt. “Lord Hoat, an army approaches from the south,” he said in a deep baritone.  “Led by the Kingslayer and the Blackfish.”

“The Blackfish ith dead,” Hoat said.

“He’s got the Tully helm on, whoever he is.”

“That thtupid fish hat?  Must be Edmure come to take back the Twinth… and hith wife!”  Hoat laughed, his breath hissing out around his thick tongue. Bronn had met few men this disgusting, and he felt a pang of sympathy for Edmure’s little Frey wife.

Hoat vanished from the hall along with the majority of his men, leaving Bronn and Pod with the guards that had brought them in.

“Put Bronn of the Blackwater in a cell,’ the crossbowman said.  “And feed him,” he added, pointing at Pod. “Don’t want to be rude to a friend of the crannogmen.”  Apparently the crossbowman hadn’t caught Hoat’s order to put both Bronn  _ and _ Pod in a cell.  This was turning out better than Bronn had imagined.

The skinny Dothraki and his Wilding buddy led Bronn and Pod down into the dungeon on the river level of the castle.  The boys seemed to look up to Pod, and even admired the ax he wore on his back, the one that Tyrion had given him years ago.  The fools hadn’t even disarmed Pod. It was beginning to almost feel like cheating, but they couldn’t make their move yet. They needed to wait for the battle at the southern tower to get underway.

They marched Bronn down a hallway and by a number of cells.  Most were empty, but as they neared the last cells Bronn nearly did a double take.  Dwarves, a dozen or so of them, three cells full. All of them appeared to be adult men.   _ What the bloody fuck is this about? _

The Wilding taunted the dwarves as they walked past, banging the hilt of his sword on the bars and startling those who had been sleeping.

“Your traveling companions,” said the Dothraki as he shoved Bronn into a cell.  “They’re going to King’s Landing for a bounty too.”

But they looked nothing like Tyrion.  They thought to fool Cersei with one of these dwarves?  But then Pod spoke, and Bronn hope he wasn’t going to say anything stupid.

“What does the Queen want with a bunch of dwarves?”

“Their not for the Queen, they’re for her Hand.”

“Shut up, Rahallo.  Ain’t his business. Why you so interested in them, anyway?” he asked Pod.   _ Oh, fuck. _

“I think they’re funny is all,” and then Pod pulled his ax out and lunged at a cell and slammed the weapon against the bars.  The dwarves jumped back, falling over one another, some cowering against the back wall. Pod let out a scalding laugh, and the Dothraki and Wilding joined in.

“Alright, let’s leave this old man and go get us a drink,’ the Wilding said and led Pod away.  Bronn sat on his haunches and waited.

 

He woke in the middle of the night to Pod at his cell door.  The lad looked a bit bleary eyed, and Bronn could only assume that he’d been forced to have a few drinks with the guards to keep up appearances.  Pod took a key from his pocket and unlocked Bronn’s door.

“Where’s the gaoler?” Bronn whispered as Pod gave him his sword and dagger.

“Dead,’ he replied, then nodded to the ax in his hands.

“Alright, let’s get moving.”

They were just leaving when a quiet voice whispered to them.

“Hey!  Hey you, psst.  Let us out too,” one of the dwarves pleaded.  “We won’t get in your way, just give use a fighting chance.”

Pod looked to him for guidance, and Bronn hesitated, then took the key from Pod’s hand and began unlocking the cells.  He’d unlocked two of the three cells, and as the dwarves scrambled out and Bronn worked on the last lock, one of them yelled.

“Watch out, boy!”

Bronn whirled around, sword in hand but it was too late.  The huge commander they’d seen in the hall earlier had snuck up on them and was already mid-swing, his warhammer descending directly on Pod.

Pod dodged just enough to avoid a direct hit to his skull, but the glancing blow did enough, sending him crumpling to the stone floor with blood streaming down his face.  He lay there unmoving, but Bronn could only react to the onslaught that was now focused on him.

The man was a beast, nearly as big as the Mountain, and if he had to guess how Robert Baratheon had fought in his heyday, this would be it.  Bronn scampered around, narrowly avoiding the swings of the hammer while he tried to form some kind of plan. He had no shield, and the hallway was tight, which limited his usual strategy of watch and wait.

Bronn squared up to meet the next blow, holding his sword with two hands.  The hammer went sliding down his blade and the head slammed into his left wrist.  There was no pain, only numbness, and Bronn wondered if he even had a left hand anymore.  No time to wonder, though, because there came the hammer again and again. Bronn was losing ground as he got backed further down the hallway, towards the dead end near his cell.

He was panting and barely parrying the blows, and then he looked up at the man’s face and wondered if this would be the man who finally killed him.  But then the man’s face, scarred and glistening with sweat, went blank, his eyes vacant, and moments after a geyser of blood erupted from his skull--Pod’s ax was lodged in it so deep, he’d split the man’s face all the way to his nose.

“”Pod, fucking hells, are you alright?” Bronn asked as he tried to wipe some of the blood, probably a mix of the commander’s and Pod’s own, from the lad’s face.

“I’m fine, Ser Bronn.  Just got my bell rung. My shoulder took the brunt of it.”

Bronn was having a hard time believing that, but there was nothing to do about it now anyway.  They had to open the postern gate quickly. They’d been delayed enough as it was. Then he had an idea.  He turned to the dwarves who were just standing there awkwardly.

“You boys want to help us out?  Go close the gates to the main hall and jam them shut.  Come on Pod, let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in case there are any show-only readers, Vargo Hoat and the Bloody Mummers are from the books, not my own creation :)
> 
> More Twins coming up, I'm really going to try to get the next one out this weekend. Thanks so much for reading, and I hope you enjoyed!


	25. The Twins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second part of the Twins battle. Brienne POV. The Bloody Mummers are assholes so there are a few potentially upsetting parts in this chapter, just FYI :)

**The Twins**

 

Night had fallen hours ago, and Brienne and her men were still sitting crouched in the bushes as near to the postern gate of the northern castle as they dared.  She was beginning to worry that something had gone wrong. Jaime and Edmure had begun their assault on the southern castle just after sunset. She’d seen Mummers crossing the bridge by the dozens, carrying weapons and armor, rushing to join in the defense of the southern castle, leaving the northern castle ripe for the taking.  So at least that part of the plan was working. But she was frozen to the bone, her feet were numb, and she felt sick to her stomach. It could only be her nerves getting to her, because she prided herself on having a heartier constitution than this.

She kept a brave face for the men clustered around her, twenty of them, plus the battering ram laying at their feet.

“There,” one of the younger men whispered to her.  He had good eyes. She followed the point of his finger and saw that the postern gate was opening slowly.  She held her breath, and finally she saw Pod’s round head poke out the door.

“Alright, let’s go,” Brienne said, then lead them down the river embankment, staying under cover of the brush for as long as they could. 

Once they were all inside, the first thing Brienne noticed was that Pod had taken a hit.  There was a deep, bloody gouge on the side of his head with another on his shoulder. It needed cleaning and dressing and--

“Let him be,” Bronn murmured in her ear, grabbing her elbow to pull her close.  “Nothing we can do about it now.”

Then Bronn cleared his throat and addressed everyone.  “Alright, the main hall is secure, we’ve got the gates dropped.  We just need to clear the tower. Most of the Mummers ran to the other castle, but there’s still some left.  Mostly on the roof.”

How did Bronn know that?  He couldn’t have scouted the castle alone.

“And we’ve got lots of women and children underfoot.  Plus about a dozen dwarves. Do what you can to protect them; they’ve helped us out already.”

_ Dwarves?   _ They must have been prisoners too if they were willing to help them out.  That was strange, but she had no time to think about it. Bronn was splitting up their men into two groups.  Some would stay in the main hall with the ram and hold their position with Pod, and the others would climb the tower with Bronn and herself.

The first and second floor was empty except for a few archers in the windows.  They’d been drinking, and Brienne almost felt bad about how easily they went down.  At the landing of the stairs to the third floor, Bronn stopped to talk to a trio of breathless dwarves.  They were red in the face and puffing hard, but were able to tell them that the Mummers had discovered what was going on.

As if on cue, Brienne heard doors slamming and men yelling and whooping out battle cries.  Then she heard women screaming. Bronn looked at all of them with his eyebrows raised. “Alright, let’s go before they can alert the other castle.  Don’t let them surround us.” And he darted up the stairs. Brienne followed behind him, her thighs burning from the climb, but even though Bronn was surely nearing fifty namedays, he seemed unaffected by the exertion.  They emerged onto the third floor and met the first group Mummers, three swordsmen and a Dothraki with an arakh, in the hallway. They took care of them efficiently, but then a flood of people swamped the hallway. Women and children were shoved out doors and into the hallway as they screamed and begged for mercy.  The children cried, and then the Mummers came into the hall as well, crowding everyone in like sardines. Brienne was disoriented and getting shoved around, caught in a sea of people. She couldn’t even swing her sword, they were so close. Bronn had his dagger out and was moving toward a group of Mummers at the opposite end, but there were little children stumbling around under him.  The Mummers had done it on purpose. They were using the women and children as human shields, knowing full well that although they had no qualms about killing innocents, Brienne and company would try their hardest not to.

One of the Lannister soldiers screamed, and she looked over at him just in time to see a Mummer pull a bloody knife from his back.  Brienne felt her adrenaline surge and she threw her arms out wide, forcing a small clearing to open up around her. Then she drew her sword and ran it through the Mummer’s neck.  She was so tall she could easily reach over the heads of the other women in the hall, and once she’d killed that one, she moved on to the next.

“Get back in your rooms!” Brienne yelled, but most of the women were distracted looking for their children.  “Get back!” Brienne saw a trap door in the floor open and a few old women poked their heads out. One with wild white hair and rheumy eyes looked at Brienne, and it was as if the Crone herself was looking upon her.   _ No, get a hold of yourself. _

“Get them out of here, please,” Brienne pleaded to the old woman, and then she saw them start to grab children by their ankles and pull them down into the crawl space beneath the wooden floorboards.   _ Thank the gods, _ she thought as the room began to clear out.

Bronn had made his way to the opposite end of the hallway and Brienne began moving toward him, when she heard a woman cry out “no!” and she saw a baby fly through the air, cartwheeling end over end.  It hit Bronn square in the chest, and he was so startled he caught it. Then a Mummer lunged forward and stuck a knife deep into Bronn’s shoulder.

“Bronn, no!” Brienne screamed and charged down the hall.  Bronn collapsed onto the floor, blood gushing in spurts from somewhere, so forceful and brilliantly red that Brienne knew he’d gotten stabbed in a large artery.  The baby rolled to the floor next to him, wailing so hard it could barely breathe.

Brienne vaulted over Bronn’s body and laid waste to the men responsible, and when she turned around, the hall was clear.  One of the Lannister men was over Bronn, trying to hold pressure on the wound, but his hands kept slipping off the blood-slick leather of Bronn’s gambeson.  Blood was spurting out with every beat of his heart, and his face was pale already. She knelt down next to Bronn and began undoing the laces, intent on saving him.

“No,” Bronn grabbed her wrist.  “There’s no time. You’ve got to lead the men now.”  He winced and gritted his teeth. “Clear the roof and then use the ram.  We’ve gotta get into that south tower.”

“But,” Brienne stuttered, her heart beating wildly in her chest.  Bronn couldn’t die like this, but if she was right, he’d been hit in the main artery in his shoulder, and only a maester had the skill to heal that.  Then she saw the trapdoor open again and the same old woman peek her eyes above the edge of the floor.

“You.  Who are you?” Brienne demanded.

“Who are you?” the old woman replied, her voice weathered and crackling.

“I’m Brienne of Tarth.  We are here to help.”

“So you  _ are _ a woman,” she replied and then grinned, showing rotten yellow teeth.  “And this man, is he one of yours?”

“Yes,” Brienne said in exasperation.

“Alright, bring him in here,” she rasped and climbed out of the trap door.  Her back was so bent that she had a hump between her shoulders. She was dirty and looked like she hadn’t bathed in months, and two more crones just like her followed her out of the floor.  “We are the midwives,” she said as she motioned to a bed in one of the small rooms off the hallway. “We’ve had to hide since these men took our castle. They have no use for old women like us.”

Brienne dragged Bronn onto the bed.  He was starting to slip in and out of consciousness.  She gripped his shoulder once, willing him with every ounce of her being to live, then nodded to the women.

“Not to worry, we know what to do with a bleeder,” the midwife said, and then they turned their attention to Bronn.  Gods, she hoped they knew what they were doing.

Brienne went back into the hallway and rallied the men around her then led them up to the rooftop. A few archers lined the crenelations and a cluster of swordsmen were looking over the edge to watch the battle at the southern castle.  She and her soldiers took care of them quick enough then ran back down to the main hall.

Pod was waiting with the men and a half dozen dead Mummers stacked against the side wall.  Apparently they’d had company.

“Where is Ser Bronn?” Pod asked.  His face softened to that of a boy’s, his thick eyebrows rising.

“He was wounded.  The women are trying--” she stopped and shook her head.  “The women are patching him up.” She had to be confident.  It fell on her now to lead the drive across the bridge.

She peeked out the crack between the two heavy wooden doors that led to the wide stone bridge that would take them across the Green Fork.  The southern doors were closed, but if they were similar to the doors before her, the ram should be able to take them down without much difficulty.  The bridge was vacant but she could see a few archers up in the crenelations of the southern tower. It would be important to keep the shields up.

When she turned back around, she saw all the men standing before her, waiting.  Bronn was supposed to do this part, but that wasn’t an option anymore, so she was going to have to take the lead.

“Alright, the bridge looks clear.  One strong blow centered on the doors should do it.  Let’s go, before we miss our chance. Once we’re in, we need to get the main gate open so the rest of our forces can get in.  If we can get the cavalry though, the battle is won.”

The taller men designated to carry shields fell in beside the shorter ones who would be carrying the ram.  Brienne was front and center, with a shield over her head and Podrick tucked behind her helping to carry the ram.  She could feel his palm braced against her back, and it was shaking. But instead of Pod’s jitters making her more nervous, it actually did the opposite.  She would get them through this, she had to. Just like all the other times they’d faced the odds before.

They pushed the doors open and charged out onto the bridge.

They’d barely gotten moving before arrows began to rain down upon them, thunking into shields, or skittering off and clattering onto the stone beneath their feet. The stones were icy and the frigid wind snapped at her fingers, but now they were halfway across.  They were going to make it. Then a molotov cocktail of wildfire exploded on the shield behind her own. The man panicked and swung his arm, which only fanned the flames.

“Shields up!  Stay tight lads, move as one,” she yelled back over her shoulder.  It’s something Bronn would have said, and for whatever reason, she’d noticed that when he used the word ‘lads,’ it calmed the men down.

Then they crashed into the door and it burst open before her, wood splintering up into her face and neck.  She stumbled forward onto her knees and then pushed herself up as quick as she could and drew her sword. The main hall was full of armed men and on the dais was a tall, dark man with a goatee giving a speech to rally them.  It must be the goat of Qhohor.

“-and we shall thpill their blood acroth the thtones of their anthethtorth, and then we shall toth their lifeleth bodieth into the river and laugh as the women cry over their dead huthbandth and thonth.”

The men cheered and whooped.  A few in the back of the crowd turned to look at her.  They’d heard the ram but the men in the front must have assumed it was something happening at the front of the castle.  They would never have thought that it was an attack from the bridge.

“Go, for the main gate!” Brienne cried and then she grabbed her sword with both hands and charged forward, planning on skirting around the back of the crowd.

“What’th thith?!” Vargo Hoat cried.  “Theithe them!”

The crowd turned on her, Pod and their dozen men, falling on them like a tidal wave.  They couldn’t take on these numbers, there was no way, but she knew that all she needed to do was open the main gate and the cavalry would storm in.

Brienne hacked and slashed gracelessly, eventually resorting to using her dagger over her Valyrian steel.  She gutted some men and opened up the necks of others, each kill bringing her closer to the gate. And they didn’t seem to realize what she was trying to do.  That was until she met Vargo Hoat in the fray.

The Qhohorik appeared before her and without warning or preamble, arched a big slicing swing down on her.  She barely got her head out of the way, but the blade pierced her leather gambeson and cut deep into the flesh of her left shoulder.

“What’th thith?  A woman?!” Hoat shrieked.  “You must be the Maid of Tarth.”

Brienne scowled and pressed forward, holding her dagger out in front of her.  She really wanted her sword, but there was no time to swap weapons. This would have to do.

“Better men than you have tried to kill me,” she growled and darted at him with the blade, then dipped to the right, out of reach of his sword.  Although she was far to big for it, she was trying her best to harness whatever she could of Arya Stark’s Braavosi technique.

“Ah, but I don’t mean to kill you, ugly girl.  I kill the men, and I make the women mine,” and he licked his grey lips.  “You’ll learn to enjoy it. Unleth you already have. I’ve heard you’re the Kingthlayer’th whore now.”

_ No, I’m not his whore.  I will be his wife.  _ But later, after she’d killed this filth.  She feinted to the right and got him to swing, then she stabbed the dagger deep into his sword arm, aiming for the muscles and tendons.  He howled then tossed his sword to is left hand, his now useless right arm hanging at his side dripping blood.

“Too easy,” she sneered and then threw the dagger at his face, causing him to hesitate just long enough for her to draw Oathkeeper and remove his head from his shoulders.  Arterial spray shot out of his headless neck like a fountain, and his left hand continued to hold the sword, as if his body had not quite gotten the message yet that he’d been killed.  Then his body crumpled to the ground and she ran forward, to the gates, and opened them.

The Mallister cavalry charged in, horses chomping at their bits, ready to finally see some action after standing in the cold for days.  The men were even more ready, and they cut down the Mummers like a field of wheat before the scythe.

Edmure was a sight to behold, seated upon his white destrier with the ancestral Tully helm upon his head.  He charged into the fray without hesitation and he laid waste to those before him. Jaime followed behind him, and her heart leapt into her throat.  He looked as glorious as he had at Riverrun years ago, but this time he was on his black warhorse and he wore his plate and hook on his right arm instead of the golden hand.   _ He lays with me at night, that man.  He’s had his mouth and tongue all over my body.   _ Absurdly, in the middle of this battle, she felt heat bloom between her legs.  Jaime rode past her then, and as if reading her mind, he gave her a loaded smile.   _ Oh gods, I need him to fuck me right now. _

But they still had work to do.  Brienne rallied the soldiers that were on foot.  They’d lost one man and there were three more injured, including the man whose shield had started on fire on the bridge.  Pod was relatively unscathed, so she ordered him and a few others to sweep the room and secure it while she lead the rest of her soldiers up the stairs to the second floor.

When she came up to the landing, she saw the hallway strewn with Mummer bodies.  Jaime was still there, but Edmure had charged on to the next floor, apparently intent on finding his wife.

“Where’s Bronn,” Jaime asked, his eyes dark with worry.

“He was wounded in the northern tower,” Brienne said and shook her head.  “The midwives were treating him when I last saw him. It was…. It was bad, Jaime.  I’m sorry. They pushed the women and children into us and then we were overrun. But the Frey midwives are no doubt incredibly experienced, I’m sure they--” and she stopped talking and pressed her lips together.

“We should keep climbing,” Jaime replied with a pained expression, then turned to the staircase and they ran up the stairs together, swords drawn.

They was just in time to see the end of the battle.  Edmure’s armor was splattered with blood and his dark brown hair stuck out every which way from beneath his full helm.  He laid a killing blow across the chest of the last man, then stopped and looked at a wispy, brown-haired woman. She shrank back from him, and Brienne noticed she was hiding a little boy behind her skirts.  It was Edmure’s wife.

“Take off your helm,” Brienne said to Edmure.  He needed to show her his face.

Roslin Frey looked at her, and she seemed to relax a bit when she saw Brienne was a woman like her.

Edmure took off his helm.  “Roslin,” he said, then paused, swallowed hard.  “I’m so sorry. I came as soon as I could.”

Roslin’s eyes welled up with tears, but she didn’t run to him, she only moved her skirts aside and a the little boy peeked out from behind them.  He had beautiful red hair and stunning blue eyes, and he reminded Brienne of Sansa.

“Oh gods,” Edmure sighed and his face face softened and he put his hand to his mouth.  “Is this him? Is this my boy?”

Roslin nodded.  “I kept him safe,” she said, her voice hoarse but proud.  Brienne felt her face scrunch up with emotion. Gods, what that woman must have endured.

The little boy seemed remarkably unafraid of Edmure.  It spoke to how well Roslin had kept the boy sheltered from the horrors that were going on all around him.  In fact, most of the children she’d seen were well-fed and bright-eyed. Though they themselves had suffered greatly, it seemed that the Frey women had been able to protect their children, stashing them in crawl spaces, closets, and servants’ corridors.  And none of the women appeared to be pregnant. The midwives must have done their job as well, making sure to keep moon tea available, even if they couldn’t stop the other things.

Pod stood at her side and Brienne heard him sigh happily as Edmure hugged his little son, then ruffled his red hair.  “Tully hair,” Edmure said to him and the boy smiled.

Brienne looked at Jaime then, and Jaime was watching the interaction between father and son with rapt attention, a look of awe on his face.  Then he stepped forward and drew Maidenheart from its sheath.  _ The sword he named for me. _

“Kneel, Lord Edmure,” Jaime said.  Edmure was already a knight, though Brienne had no idea when or where he’d been knighted, and she didn’t think it really mattered.  This would be the knighting that Edmure would always remember, the day he would start to call himself “Ser” instead of “Lord.” The little redheaded boy’s eyes lit up, recognizing that he was watching something special.  Perhaps he’d seen it in a book his mother had read to him, and the raw innocence of his face made Brienne’s heart ache.

 

When Brienne and Jaime came back down the stairs into the main hall of the southern castle, Bronn stood in the ruins of the bridge gate, supported by one of the Lannister soldiers.  He was a sight to behold, with dried blood caked up his neck, into his beard and his sleek black hair. His entire right arm was wrapped in dressings and then secured in a sling across his chest.  But his light eyes were alive as ever, and Brienne couldn’t help but take note of just how handsome Bronn was beneath the layers of sellsword and smarm.

Bronn whistled appreciatively as he looked down at the splintered door.

“Looks like you handled things just fine,” he said to her, then winced when he moved the wrong way.  “Sorry I couldn’t make it back to help, but those old biddies wouldn’t let me leave. Gave me milk of the poppy, too.  I guess they had to dig around in my shoulder quite a bit to stop the bleeding.”

“Bronn!” Jaime yelled from across the room, and he hurried over to him.  “It’s good to see you in one piece.” He grasped Bronn’s good shoulder. Brienne could see the true relief in Jaime’s eyes, the happiness that Bronn was alive, and then Jaime lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.  “I heard they threw a baby at you...and you caught it. I never knew you had such paternal instincts.”

“Oh shut the fuck up, you cunt.  I’d like to see what you would have done.”

“I’m glad you’re alright,” Jaime said seriously.

“Aye, me too.  And now, if you have no need for Podrick Payne, I’m taking him with me to find something to eat.”

There was nothing left to do but organize the defense of the newly won castles, and Edmure seemed to be handling that all on his own.  So Pod left with Bronn, and Jaime took Brienne’s hand and tugged her along beside him as he made his way out onto the bridge, heading to the northern castle.  He stopped halfway across and pulled her into a heated kiss.

“I have urgent business that I need to discuss with you,” he said and then she could feel him hard and ready, pressed against her thigh.  Her eyes widened and she nodded and allowed him to lead her the rest of the way across the bridge and into the northern castle.

Once they found an empty room, Jaime closed the door behind them and barred it shut.  Then he was on her, mouths and tongues wrestling for dominance as they fell back onto a little bed in the corner of the room.  They frantically worked their legs out of their pants, and then Jaime was in her, with one deep powerful stroke. Heat flooded her belly and she pulled at his hips urgently, trying to force him even deeper inside her.  She whined and arched her back, but it was as if he was only scratching the surface of something, something amazing. “Jaime, please,” she pleaded, her thighs spread as far as she could.

“Turn over,” Jaime growled, and then grabbed her hip roughly and flipped her onto her stomach.  She was shocked, but then he pulled her ass up to him and slammed back into her, and she thought her eyes were going to pop out of their sockets.  He was so far in her now, pounding against that place she wanted. She lost all control as her pleasure mounted higher and higher, so high that she didn’t think she could stand it and then after what felt like an exquisite eternity, she crashed over the edge, screaming and bucking against him.  He followed shortly after, his cock jerking inside of her.

They collapsed together on the bed, Brienne on her belly and Jaime on his back next to her.

“So, how does it feel to take your first castle?” Jaime asked.

“Lovely,” Brienne crooned, barely awake.  She was exhausted and sated. It wasn’t long before sleep took her and as as she fell asleep, she had a ridiculous, foolish hope that Jaime would get her with child.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you ITC so much for all the grammar and some continuity/medical inconsistencies with poor Bronn's injury.
> 
> Just wanted to note that this is showverse and I imported Vargo Hoat and the Bloody Mummers from the books, but this is their first appearance in this show universe, so Brienne and Jaime haven't met them before (unlike in the books, where they got to know each other VERY well).


	26. The Twins (part two)

**The Twins (part two)**

 

Brienne got up just past midday.  She was confused as to how long she’d slept until she realized that they hadn’t secured the castles until early in the morning.  Jaime was deep in sleep next to her, bare naked on top of the covers and Brienne smiled fondly at that. He had no shame. But he had a lovely ass, and she had to resist giving it a firm squeeze.  She didn’t want to wake him.

She got up and pulled her pants back on then sent for water and some clothes so she could make herself look at least somewhat presentable.  When a little girl came back with a pitcher, the child unabashedly looked her over. She couldn’t have been more than seven or eight years old.

“Are you really a lady?” she asked, bouncing on the balls of her feet.

Brienne took the pitcher from her.  She couldn’t be offended; the child was only curious.  “I am.”

“I knew it.  I told Mum you were, but she said ladies don’t carry swords.  Where did you get it? I want one.”

Brienne pressed her lips together to keep from laughing.  “My friend gave it to me.”

“Oh, okay,” she said, apparently satisfied with that answer.  Then she ran off, stumbling to halt halfway down the hall to turn around and curtsy to her.  “Thank you, m’lady.”

 

Once she was as clean as she was going to be, Brienne strapped Oathkeeper around her waist and walked down to the great hall of the northern castle, hoping to find some food.  She found Bronn instead.

“Your lesser half still sleeping?” Bronn asked  He’d been pleased enough after the battle, even with the injury he’d sustained, but now the spark had left his eyes and his voice lacked its usual lilt.

“Probably,” she answered, though it was high time he got out of bed.  Bronn nodded but didn’t say anything. His arm had been rebandaged and the color had returned to his face, so physically he looked better than before, but he had such a flat affect to him that it was making Brienne feel uneasy.

“How is Podrick?” she asked.

“Well enough.  Got a headache now, so the old biddies told him he couldn’t drink.  They are making him rest. He’s lucky all he’s got is a headache. That warhammer would have crushed his skull with a well-placed blow.”  Bronn sighed. “Maybe I’ll go wake up our golden boy.”

“Yes,” Brienne said, “and thank you, Ser Bronn.  For your sacrifice and your guidance. I could not have done it without you.”

Bronn just shrugged and muttered, “Aye,” then swallowed dryly and left her.

Brienne tried to put Bronn’s strange behavior from her mind, but she found she couldn’t.  What if Podrick was more gravely wounded that he was letting on? It made no sense for Bronn to lie about that, but what else could it be?  Soon she found herself feeling sick with worry, to the point that a creeping numbness settled over her. She’d intended to cross the bridge to speak with Edmure on the manning of the castle, but first she needed to check in on Podrick, to see with her own eyes that he was indeed alright and only suffering from a headache.

“My Lady,” one of the old women that had treated Bronn greeted her.  Talla was her name, Talla Frey, the widow of some long dead Frey cousin.  She seemed to be in charge, and she had organized a medical wing to treat the wounded.  There were a dozen or so Lannister and Mallister soldiers including three of her men, and even a few women and children that had been caught up in the fray.  She let out a breath of relief when she saw Podrick in a corner of the room, head wrapped with a bandage and what looked like a bag of snow plopped atop his head. When he caught sight of her, Pod tried to smile but it came across as more of a wince.  A few little children were clustered around his bed, one with his arm in a sling, and all of them were as spunky as ever.

“How is the boy over there?  The one with the head wound. Will he make a full recovery?” Brienne asked quietly.

The old crone frowned for a moment, as if she didn’t know who Brienne was talking about, but then followed Brienne’s gaze.  “Oh,” she said, “You mean Ser Podrick? He’ll be fine as soon as those little boys leave him alone. They’ve never seen a man knighted before.”

Brienne’s mouth fell open and across the room Pod’s face turned beet red.   _ Ser Pod, now, and rightly so. _  She couldn’t have been more proud of her little squire.  She supposed Bronn had knighted him.

“Ser Podrick Payne, you fought admirably,” she said formally as she approached his bed.  “How is your head?”

“It’s alright, M’Lady,” Pod replied.  He looked a little glassy-eyed and groggy.  “They gave me a little something for the pain.”

The little children were still scampering around his bed, and though she hated to put a stop to the fun considering what these children had been through, they were being awfully loud.

“My knight, my knight!” squealed a little girl as she waved a grey handkerchief about.  “Save me!” She flung the handkerchief in the air and the other children, including the one with the arm in a sling, all dove for it, but Brienne scooped it up.

“Poor Ser Podrick needs to rest now,” she said gently,  “Perhaps you should go see what’s cooking in the kitchen?  Maybe they will have some sweets for you.”

That did the trick.  The children ran from the room, clomping loudly down the hall, their shrill voices echoing off the stone walls.

“Thank you, m’lady,” Pod mumbled.  His eyes were already closing, so Brienne left him to rest.  She’d nearly made it out the door when Talla caught her.

“Come over here and let me see that arm,” she said, and when she looked at it she tisked Brienne with her tongue.  “You should have had this seen too right away; it needs stitching. And with all due respect, My lady, you could use a bath.”

Brienne sat down on the stool as instructed and let the old ladies tend to her.  She winced a few times as they cleaned and sewed the wound, particularly when they wrenched her arm out of her sleeve with more strength that she would have imagined.  As they worked, Brienne realized that she still had the scrap of fabric in her hand, the one she had taken from the children. She spread it out flat on her knee with her free hand and furrowed her brow, trying to make sense of it.  And when she did, it was as if her whole world was turned on end.

An intricately stitched direwolf looked back up at her.  The image was so beautifully embroidered that Brienne recognized the hand immediately--Sansa’s, and she’d stitched a strand of her own red hair into it.  Lady Sansa had given Podrick her favor. When the bloody hells had that happened?! How could she have been so obtuse as to not notice? What  _ exactly _ had Podrick done to endear her so to him?  Thoughts of Ser Bronn teasing Podrick about his “magic cock” flooded her mind.

“Sit still,” Talla scolded her.  “I’m almost done.”

Brienne stared at Podrick, her little squire sleeping innocently in bed, a happy smile on his face.  She was being unfair. He was a man grown now, and a knight at that, though she would have to speak to Podrick about what his intentions were with Lady Sansa.

“Alright, done.  Now let the girls see to you.  They’ll get you a bath and some clean clothes.

The thought of a bath was too enticing not to obey, so Brienne followed along obediently, and noticed that the two girls who were accompanying her were looking at her in awe, wide-eyed and nervous, as if she were some hero from songs.

 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

 

Jaime rolled over in bed and pried one eye open.  Something had woken him up. And the only reasons he would find acceptable were if Brienne was waking him up for more sex or that dinner was ready.  He knew it was late, but gods he was so comfortable and sated, he couldn’t get up. He reached across the bed to what he thought was Brienne, but it was only a pile of blankets and pillows.

He’d never had sex like that before.  Post-battle, adrenaline-fueled fucking.  He’d never had the opportunity. Cersei was never anywhere near a battle; she was always tucked away safely at the Rock or the Red Keep.  His men would lay with whores or camp followers while Jaime jerked himself off. Now he’d found out what he’d been missing, and it was amazing.

Then someone banged on the door, jarring him completely awake. Grumpily, he got out of bed and pulled on his pants.  At some point, he’d stripped all his clothes off. He ran his hand through his hair and took a sip of water straight from the pitcher on the small table next to the bed.  Brienne must have brought it for him. Then he strode to the door, ready to berate whoever was hammering on it from the other side.

But when he pulled the door open, he saw it was Bronn, and his face was ashen.

“What’s happened?” Jaime asked, dread flooding his veins.

“What are you on about?  Nothing’s happened,” Bronn said and shoved his way past him.

Jaime actually sputtered as Bronn pushed by.  “Well forgive me, Ser Bronn, but you just came barging in here looking like you were about to tell me that someone was dead.”

Bronn paced across the floorboards then turned and leaned his hips against the windowsill, facing Jaime from across room.  He still had dried blood in his hair, but someone had changed the dressing on his wound.

“What are you staring at?” Bronn said.

“Have you looked at yourself lately?” Jaime asked.  “You look like you’ve just butchered a pig.” Jaime grabbed the pitcher of water and towel from the table.  He wet the rag and then walked over to Bron who was watching him suspiciously. With Bronn’s right arm tied up in a sling, it was probably difficult for him to do even simple things like wash his face.  Jaime remembered.

“Here,” Jaime said as he stood next to him.  Bronn went to take the towel from him but Jaime elbowed his hand away.  “Let me. I’m better with my left than you are.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

Jaime ignored him and began to clean the flaky blood from his neck and face.  Jaime had never taken notice before, but upon closer inspection, Bronn wasn’t so much tan as he was freckled to a point that you couldn’t see the paler skin beneath.

“Are you satisfied?” Bronn asked as Jaime finished.  “You’re worse than my mum.”

“How is it?” Jaime asked, nodding to Bronn’s right shoulder  “Is there much pain?”

“No,” Bronn answered.

“Can I see it?” Jaime prodded.  He was beginning to worry that he knew what the problem was.

“Fine,” Bronn said, and Jaime led him to the bed and sat him down.  He unwound the wrapping and then pulled back the fresh bandage that lay over the wound.  There was a puncture wound in the middle of Bronn’s shoulder, almost in his armpit, and then a long, precise incision that went from his collarbone all the way down to just above the bulge of his biceps.  Neat, black stitching held the wound closed, and the flesh around it was purple with bruises.

“This is much worse than I thought,” Jaime said, his voice gravelly in his throat.  The knife had hit an artery. By all counts, Bronn should be dead. Only a maester, and talented one at that, should have had a chance of saving him.  The old women must have been trained by one of the many maesters that had passed through the Twins. With the amount of children being born here, it would have been prudent to train them in advanced healing techniques, though the Citadel would have taken the maester’s chain had they found out.

“Stop that,” Bronn said, breaking Jaime’s train of thought.

“What?”

“Just stop,” Bronn growled and jerked himself upright.  He went across the room and tried to pull out a chair with his left, but he ended up hooking it on his foot by accident and the chair tipped over onto the floor.  He kicked it so hard he broke the leg.

“Bronn--”

“I can’t feel my fucking hand, Jaime!” Bronn yelled.  “I can’t move my fingers, I can’t make a fist. And I’m a sellsword.  You remember that, don’t you? I sell my _ fucking sword _ .  I don’t even have a fancy name to fall back on like you.  You thought you were fucked, well this,” Bronn said and gestured to himself with his left hand, “this is what fucked really looks like.”

Jaime folded his arms across his chest.  He’d supsected this, though he wished he’d been wrong.

“Are you done yet?” Jaime asked quietly.  If he knew anything, he knew that the last thing that Bronn needed was sympathy.  Bronn hadn’t given him any sympathy when they’d trained together years ago on the oceanfront of King’s Landing, and it had been the best thing anyone had done for him.

“Yeah, I’m fucking done,” Bronn said resignedly and sat back down on the bed next to him.  Perhaps the sensation and strength would return in time; it wasn’t impossible. It could be the swelling pressing on his nerves, or maybe a pool of trapped blood.  It could come back…but Jaime didn’t think so.

He wanted to put his arm around the other man, his brother-in-arms, his right hand, his friend.  Tentatively, because he didn’t want to get punched in the face even with Bronn’s left fist, he put his arm across Bronn’s broad shoulders.  They sat there in silence, Jaime somehow managing to keep his mouth shut, to give Bronn time, to simply be there for him.

 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - -

 

Brienne found Edmure in the great hall of the southern keep.  He sat before the hearth speaking with the Mallister cavalry commander.  Edmure had bathed and wore a Tully tunic with plain pants and his riding boots.  He had a few scrapes on his face, but otherwise appeared unscathed. The Mallister commander was still in his armor.

“Lady Brienne,” Edmure said and rose to his feet when he saw her approaching.  He bowed to her and Brienne nodded back. “This Ser Reginald Mallister, Lord Mallister’s cousin and commander of the Mallister cavalry.”

“My Lady,” Ser Reginald greeted her.  He had a large nose and deep brown eyes beneath his thick eyebrows.  Glossy black hair was tied back at the nape of his neck

“Ser Reginald, thank you for your service.  The cavalry was vital to our victory.”

Ser Reginald smiled, his white teeth flashing.  “My Lady, if I may, it was you who was integral to our victory.  You slew the Goat and opened the gates to let us in.”

Edmure smiled for the first time since she’d met him.  “Yes, we’d all still be sitting outside stuck in a siege if it weren’t for you and the men under your command.”

Brienne felt herself blushing at the compliments of these two knights.  “Thank you, sers. The battle was hard-fought by all.”

“And if I may further say,” Ser Reginald continued, “I think the lady knight deserves an official knighthood.”

“I couldn’t,” Brienne said automatically.  That was absurd. She’d never even deluded herself into thinking she could one day be a true knight in the eyes of the Seven.

“I was thinking just the same thing, Ser Reginald.  The lady should be knighted. She’s done more than most knights I know, including myself,” Edmure said. 

“That’s not true,” Brienne protested.  She was starting to feel like things were snowballing out of her control.

“It is.  You rescued my niece from the Bolton bastard.  You led the men when Ser Bronn went down, killed Vargo Hoat, and ensured a victory for us.”

“Yes, knight her, Ser Edmure!  The Riverlands will recognize it, as will the Stormlands and the North.  And I do believe the Westerlands will as well,” and then Reginald trailed off, but grinned at her and Edmure.  Clearly they all knew about her and Jaime. But interestingly, she found she didn’t mind. If anything, she was proud.

“I don’t mean to put you on the spot.  Think about it,” Edmure said.

“I will,” Brienne replied.  Then Ser Reginald took his leave, and Edmure collapsed back into his chair by the hearth.  He suddenly looked sullen and exhausted. He must have been putting on a face for the Mallister commander.

“Please, sit,” Edmure said and motioned to the chair opposite him.  “How are your injured men?” he asked.

“All have been tended to and are resting comfortably.”  A serving girl brought out two mugs of ale for them. Brienne took a sip and tried to place the flavor, something the Hound had taught her to do. _  A Riverlands Red, maybe? _

“Good.  We did lose five warhorses and three Mallister cavalrymen.”

“And the Mummers?  How many prisoners?”

Edmure’s eyes flashed over the rim of his mug.  “No prisoners. Every last one was put to the sword at my command.”  The way he said it implied that he did not want to hear her opinion on that.

“You must burn the bodies.  It’s the only way to ensure that they stay dead.”

Edmure nodded then stared at the fire.  Brienne finished her mug of ale and called for another round.  She found that she had quite a thirst post-battle, and that ale tasted even better than it did before.

“Roslin won’t come near me,” Edmure eventually muttered when he was halfway through his second mug.  “She smiles, but I see fear in her eyes. She doesn’t trust me. After what has happened to her, how could she ever trust a man again?”

“Give her time, Edmure.  It’s only been a day.”

“It’s a horrible feeling, that I couldn’t protect her from this.  It makes me sick,” he snarled that last word, spittle flying from his lips.

“I know,” Brienne said.  Even now, Renly came to mind.  “But you can protect her still.  Be patient and gentle. She does trust you.  She trusts you with her son. Your son.”

Edmure nodded and smiled a bit, but it was a rueful smile.  “You know his name is Walder.”

Brienne did the best she could to hide the look of disgust on her face.  “What? Why?”

“Old Walder named him.  Roslin had no say in it.  But when the Mummers came, she started calling him Red to hide his identity.  It’s the only name he’s ever known.”

Brienne took a drink and savored it, thinking.  The ale was making her relax, and she leaned back into her chair and crossed her ankle over her knee.  “Redmond is a strong name,” she said.

Edmure perked up a bit.  “Redmond,” he said it, trying it out.  “I shall have to discuss that with my lady wife.”  He looked over at her from beneath his brows and gave her a smile, his crooked teeth catching the firelight.

She smiled back, then rested her head on the back of the chair and closed her eyes.  There were so many things to do, but she couldn’t fathom even getting up at this moment, she so closed her eyes and let herself doze off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!!
> 
> Thank you ITC for the beta :D And for making me realize that I stan the Oxford comma haha.
> 
> Lil splash of bromance in there for you roqueamadi. I think I whumped Bronn :D


	27. Winterfell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion hears from Jaime. Winterfell plans their next move as the army of the dead marches ever closer.

**Winterfell**

 

“My brother has secured the Twins,” Tyrion announced as he entered the war council.  He still had the scroll from Jaime clutched in his hand; the raven had just arrived. Of course it hadn’t just been Jaime alone who’d done it, but Tyrion wanted to cast his brother in as good a light as he could.  Jaime was not well-liked at Winterfell, though he did have a few surprising allies in Sansa and Sandor Clegane.

Daenerys stood at the head of the long table, flanked by Jorah Mormont to her right and Grey Worm to her left.  Tyrion had been shocked to find out that Jorah had contracted greyscale while they’d been traveling together. Samwell Tarly had allegedly cured him somehow, though Tyrion was not going to be getting close to the man any time soon.

The fat almost-maester stood next to Jon Snow, smiling nervously with that half-witted expression on his face.   _ Never judge a book by its cover. _  The man had survived rangings beyond the wall and had killed a white walker, and he was extraordinarily intelligent.  Tyrion prided himself on being well-learned and sharp-witted, and Samwell was just as intelligent as he was, if not as quick-tongued.

Sam looked even more nervous than usual.  He was glistening with a sheen of sweat and bouncing on the balls of his feet as he wrung his hands together atop his barrel of a belly.   _ Interesting. _

The Hound stood behind Arya and Sansa, glowering and sneering occasionally, the leather of his armor creaking beneath the strain of his enormity.  Sansa glanced at Tyrion and raised a fine eyebrow at him, and Arya just stood there with her arms crossed over her chest.

“Good,” Daenerys said plainly, as if he had just told her supper was ready.  “Then we are ready to move south and regroup?”

“The Twins were the last piece of the puzzle, Your Grace,” Varys purred from where he stood, hands hidden in the folds of his robes.  “Most of the northern lords have returned to their keeps to evacuate their people to the coasts. The Vale knights are already marching to White Harbor.  They will fortify the Vale as you’ve commanded.”

Tyrion nodded.  Though the thought sent a shiver down his spine, it was possible that the Riverlands would fall and they would have to retreat again.  The Vale would be their last stronghold.

“Very well,” Daenerys said.  “We leave at once.”

“I’m not leaving,” Jon Snow said.   _ What??   _ Tyrion’s head snapped from one Stark to the next, trying to figure out what had just happened.  He’d known the Stark sisters would not be happy to leave, but he hadn’t heard anything but agreeance from Jon.  But now Jon looked pained and tired. Sansa was unreadable, and Arya had a fire burning in her eyes. For the love of all the gods, would Jon Snow stop fucking everything up?  First the dragonpit and now this. This was absolute madness.

“Winterfell is a castle, made of stone and mortar.  It can be retaken once the war was won,” Tyrion said, spreading his hands out, pleading for sanity.  “And we  _ must _ leave, if we are to have any hope of winning.”

“Bran will not leave either,” Jon said.  “I will stay with a small contingent of my men.  The castle walls will hold. It was built to withstand the winter and the Long Night.”

Daenerys was silently staring at the table top, blinking a bit rapidly, until finally she ground her teeth together and said, “I forbid it.  You will ride south. That is an order from your queen.” And if Jon Snow thought he would be getting any special treatment from Daenerys, he was finding out now that that was not the case.  Tyrion had known from the moment he’d realized what was going on between the two of them that it would be a mistake, and now here they were.

“Your Grace, I cannot leave my brother.  I cannot abandon Winterfell. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell,” Jon said.

“I am your Queen, Jon Snow, lest you forget.  You’ve bent the knee to me and you will obey me.”

Oh fucking hells, this was going to turn into a pissing contest if Tyrion didn’t put a stop to it.  “If I may, Your Grace, perhaps we should take a recess. Sleep on it and reconvene in the morning.”

Daenerys swung her head to look at him, her eyes narrow and her lips peeled back from her teeth in a way that made her look just like Drogon.  But Tyrion raised his brows and held his own, and she finally conceded. “Fine, first thing tomorrow we will begin the evacuation of  _ everyone _ from Winterfell. _ ” _  Then she swept from the room, not even giving Jon a glance as Jorah and Grey Worm strode out behind her.

 

When Tyrion finally extricated himself from the war council, he made straight for the great hall to get a drink, and he found Sandor Clegane already there.  The huge man was slumped before the fire with a tankard of ale in hand. He was staring at the flames, apparently lost in thought, with a direwolf pup curled around one of his boots.

“Clegane,” Tyrion said as he hoisted himself onto a chair, the ale in his own mug sloshing around so much that he nearly spilled it onto his pants.  Getting onto chairs had become more difficult lately, whether it was age or the cold stiffening his joints, he didn’t know, but it made him feel old.

“Lannister,” Clegane growled.  

_ You haven’t lost your charm, I see.   _ “I hear you are to be a father,” Tyrion said lightly, trying to get the man talking.

“The Stark girls have big fucking mouths,” he replied.

“They do,” Tyrion agreed.  “Well, congratulations nonetheless.”

Clegane mumbled something into his cup then took a deep drink.  Clearly the Hound was as cantankerous as ever, so Tyrion slumped back in his chair and enjoyed the heat of the fire in silence.

He’d just about finished his first mug when the doors to the great hall were thrown open wide and a scouting party road right into the keep.  They were covered in snow and their mounts were puffing and snorting beneath them.

“The army has emerged from the Wolfswood!” one scout shouted.  Tyrion flung himself from his chair and hastened over to them. Clegane stood as well and followed.

“How?” Tyrion asked.  They’d had scouts posted all along Long Lake, and the last they’d heard the army had been just reaching the northern shores.

“I don’t know,” the scout muttered and shook his head.  “But they are within half a day’s march now.”

“Cunts must have slipped us in the woods with some shit magic,” Clegane said as he held the reins of the scout’s mount so the man could get down.

“What’s going on?” Daenerys said as she appeared in the great hall.  She must have heard the commotion and the thundering of the horses on the stone floor.  “Lord Hand?” she looked to him.

“The dead are at our doorstep, my queen, we must leave now,” Tyrion replied.

“Send the traveling parties south immediately,” she commanded.

“Yes, my queen,” Tyrion said, then shouted some orders to the men in the hall.  The traveling parties had already been organized and supplied and were ready to leave.  Jorah and Grey Worm were to lead them. The undead Viserion was still at the Wall according to the most recent ravens, so at least they would not have that to deal with.  But they had to get the people and the dragons out before the dead were upon them. For every man they lost, the dead gained another soldier.  _ Or dragon _ .

“Gather your sisters we are leaving at once,” Daenerys ordered Jon who had just appeared at her side.  Davos was with him, as was Tormund Giantsbane and a few other Wildlings and men of the Watch.

“Ready our horses!” Jon yelled to the stable boys, and for a moment Tyrion thought things were going to go as they should, that Jon would ride south and they could take a stand in the Riverlands, but then Jon said more.  “We will ride out and meet them.”

“No,” Daenerys whispered and grabbed his wrist.  Her voice was soft and her eyes glistened, and for a moment Tyrion thought she looked like a lovesick girl and not the mother of dragons.  “Jon, no. Please.”

“If they take another dragon, this war is all but lost.  We will hold them off until the dragons are safely away,” Jon said softly and pressed his forehead against hers.  She kissed him and he pulled her close, and in a hall full of people, Tyrion thought perhaps he was the only one who was watching--he and Jorah Mormont who was looming in a side door of the hall.  Everyone else was too busy mobilizing the men.

In what seemed like only seconds, Jon Snow was atop his warhorse, armed and armored with his men at his side.  Davos was stoic and tall in his saddle, and Tormund looked ready to kill, even if he was a bit of a novice on horseback.

“Jon!” Arya screamed as she ran into the hall.  “Jon, let me come,” she cried. “Please, please, don’t leave, not again.”  Arya was hysterical, and shockingly so considering her usual sociopathic disposition.

Jon cradled her face in one gloved hand and smiled down at her.  “I will come back, I promise. And when this war is done and this Long Night is over, Winterfell will finally be ours.”

“Stay safe, Jon,” Sansa said as she came to pull Arya away.

“I will.  I love you both.”  And then Jon kicked his horse and the party galloped out into the night, the huge white direwolf, Ghost, on their heels.

“Lord Hand,” Samwell Tarly’s voice called to him across the hall.  Tyrion caught sight of him as he tried to push his way through the crowd, too polite to actually throw his weight around.  “Lord Hand, a word if I may,” he said breathless as always.

“Make it quick, Samwell,” Tyrion said and began walking out of the great hall.  Sam trotted next to him.

“It’s about Jon…” Sam said and trailed off as he looked over his shoulder.  “I wanted to tell him something before he left, but I didn’t get the chance.”

“I’m sure he knows you care deeply for him, Sam, and I don’t mean to be rude, but I don’t have time for this.”

Sam grabbed his shoulder and spun him around, his face dark and serious.  Tyrion realized he wasn’t going to like what Sam was about to say.

“Jon is the true heir to the Iron Throne.  He is the legitimate son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark.  He is also Daenerys’ nephew.”

_ What. The. Fucking Hells.   _ Tyrion’s brain exploded, thoughts and calculations all crashing into one another in such a frenzy that it physically hurt.  How could this be? But then it all fit together, and he felt a fool for never suspecting that the honorable Ned Stark’s bastard was not who he said he was.

“Sam, who knows this?”

“Bran knows, he saw it in his visions, and Gilly and I found papers at the Citadel documenting their wedding.”

“Alright.  You should get your family to the southern gate.  The traveling parties are leaving soon.”

“I will.  Thank you, Lord Tyrion,” Sam said, and as Tyrion watched Sam waddle away he could tell a weight had been lifted off his shoulders.  Only to be piled on top of his own.

 

After making sure the traveling parties were away, Tyrion began to climb the steps to the top of one of the castle towers.  He wanted to check in with the watchmen to see if they’d caught sight of the army yet. But climbing the stairs was easier said than done.  His hips and knees ached and he was exhausted, having not slept in nearly a day. Then he heard loud, clomping footsteps approach from behind him.

“Shouldn’t you be with the Stark girls?” Tyrion asked as Clegane appeared next to him.  One of the direwolf pups was with him, its tail wagging happily.

“Not interested in sitting around twiddling my thumbs with a bunch of wailing women.”

“Arya is certainly--taking this--hard,” Tyrion puffed as he continued up the steps.  “I’m a bit surprised, really.”

“I’m not,” Clegane said and then scooped Tyrion up under the armpits, carrying him like a sack of potatoes, and began taking the steps two at a time.  He didn’t even acknowledge that he’d done it, just continued on about Arya. “She thinks she can protect herself by acting like she doesn’t give two shits about anything.  Deep down she’s still that little girl watching her father’s head get lopped off.”

Arya had seen Ned’s execution too?  Gods, the poor girl. ”So this is the straw that finally breaks the horse’s back,” Tyrion said, understanding.  For a taciturn brute, Clegane had quite an adept ability to read people.

When they reached the last landing before they would emerge onto the roof, Clegane set him down on the stones so Tyrion could walk the last steps on his own.  He couldn’t quite bring himself to say ‘thank you’ so he just straightened his doublet and nodded to Clegane who in turn pretended not to notice.

“Can you see anything?” Tyrion asked as he approached a watchman.

“Nothing yet, my lord,” he replied.  He was leaning on the parapet, eyes narrowed as he watched the northern snow-covered plain.  Tyrion could see the tracks left by Jon’s party in the snow, but that was all.

Then, a burst of blue light lit up the sky, brighter than the Blackwater had been when it had exploded in wildfire, and Tyrion was blinded for a moment as his eyes adjusted.  He shielded his eyes with his hand and scanned the field that was suddenly cast in light as if it was the height of summer. The army of the dead was there, spread out before them, like a sea, lurching toward Winterfell as unstoppable as the tide.  White Walkers sat amongst them on rotting mounts, and then another blast of blue flame erupted in the sky and the undead Viserion swooped into view.  _ Gods fucking dammit. _  He wasn’t supposed to be here; he was supposed to be melting more of the wall according to their scouting reports.

“We have to get the dragons out of here,” Tyrion said to Clegane.  “Go,” he told a watchmen, “as fast as you can. Raise the alarm.”

“Yes, my lord,” he said and took off down the stairs.

“Bloody hells,” Clegane muttered next to him, then walked to the edge of the roof and stared out at the scene before him.  “This isn’t even their full strength. I saw more than this beyond the Wall, but it's enough.”

“It’s King Jon!” a watchmen yelled.  The northerners still called Jon their king; whether on purpose or just out of habit Tyrion wasn’t sure, but they were more right than they knew.  In the light of the dragonfire, Tyrion could see Jon and his men charging headlong at the heart of the army, barrelling toward three White Walkers.   _ Prince Rhaegar’s son, the true king, and he is riding straight into Death’s maw. _

Sansa and Arya burst out of the stairwell and ran to the edge of the parapet to watch.  Arya was clinging to the stones with a death grip. They were both dressed in furs and Sansa had a travel bag with her and Arya had her sword strapped to her hip.  The other two direwolf pups were with them, the red one and the black one.

“Everyone is well away,” Sansa said.  “The dragons will pick us up from here.”

“Thank you, Lady Sansa,” Tyrion said.

Sansa returned her attention to the field just as Jon’s party crashed into the front line of the dead.  They cut a path clean through then circled around and regrouped. The undead Viserion swooped in low and Tyrion braced himself, certain he was about to see the men burned alive, but the flame never came.  The undead dragon pulled back at the last moment and swooped up high into the air.

Drogon’s huge, black head rose up over the side of the tower and a wave of heat hit Tyrion in the face.  He sputtered then ushered Sansa forward. Daenerys sat on Drogon’s back, and she had Missandei with her as well.

“Rhaegal is coming just behind us.  We need to leave now!” Daenerys yelled to Tyrion over the beating of Drogon’s wings.  Sansa put her direwolf pup in her travel bag. It barely fit, but Sansa tied the top closed tight then put the pack over her shoulders, pulling the straps so tight Tyrion knew that they were digging into her skin.

“Sansa, no, I don’t want to be alone again,” Arya cried and she latched her own hand onto Sansa’s wrist.  “Stay with me.”

“Get on!” Daenerys yelled.

“Arya, let go,” Sansa commanded.  “I  _ will _ see you again, I swear it.” She wrestled her wrist away from her sister and just as Arya was going to grab her again, Clegane scooped Arya up into his arms.

“No!  Let go of me!” Arya screamed, but Clegane held on tight so Tyrion was able to get Sansa onto Drogon’s back.  Sansa clung to Daenerys’ waist, and Missandei held her close from behind, effectively sandwiching her in place.  Drogon took off, climbing high into the night, and he was such a match for the dark sky that Tyrion lost sight of him within moments.

Then Rhaegal appeared, his boxlike green head crested the parapet.  Clegane set Arya down for a moment so he could scoop up the two pups and put them securely in a saddle bag, then he picked Arya up again, strode over to Rhaegal, and mounted him as if he’d done it a million times.  Varys was already on, so it was just Tyrion they were waiting for. He climbed onto the top of the low parapet and Rhaegal dipped his neck down, just close enough that Varys was able to haul Tyrion on board.

Rhaegal took off into the sky, and Tyrion felt himself being pressed down onto his back.  He was riding a dragon. It was perhaps the most surreal experience he’d ever had, and he ventured a peek over the scaled side, and down below he saw Winterfell and it looked like a child’s toy.  His ears felt strange, and he worked his jaw until he felt a popping sensation and the discomfort abated.

Drogon was gone, and Rhaegal knew his orders.  Fly to White Harbor, deposit his passengers, and then fly to the Twins to rejoin Daenerys.

Rhaegal knew his orders, but then the undead Viserion let out a screech, and Rhaegal stopped his ascent and hovered in the air for a moment, quiet, listening.  Viserion roared, and then Rhaegal wheeled around to look north.

“No… no, no, no,” Tyrion moaned.  “Rhaegal… please, be a good boy.” Tyrion stroked his neck, but Rhaegal didn’t even acknowledge him.  Then he folded his wings close to his body and dove down toward the earth.

Everyone, even Clegane, screamed at the top of the lungs as they held onto Rhaegal’s scales in a desperate attempt to not fall off.  Then Rhaegal spread his wings and they were racing across the snowy field, straight towards the army of the dead, the White Walkers, and the undead dragon.

“Fuck!” Tyrion yelled to Varys, and Varys nodded in agreement.  Rhaegal was flying so fast that Varys’ chubby face was distorted from the wind, making his cheeks flap and Tyrion felt tears running down his own face.  Rhaegal let out a blast of fire and took out what must have been over one hundred wights. But he was a sitting duck for a White Walkers’ javelin. They had get him to turn away.  Then another screech, this one so close that it hurt Tyrion’s ears. The undead Viserion rose up before them and reared up as if he were a stallion, with a White Walker on his back.  The Night King. Seven fucking hells, this was the Night King. And poor Viserion. He’d been beautiful in life, cream and gold, and when his wings caught the sun they’d been blood red.  Lannister red, Tyrion had always thought, and he remembered meeting Viserion down in the depths of the pyramid. Viserion had always been Tyrion’s favorite. But now the dragon was covered in frigid white scales, and his eyes were bright blue.  He wasn’t decayed, Tyrion noticed, as most of the wights were, but he was cold and icy as death.

“Viserion…” Tyrion murmured, unable to hold his emotion in anymore.

The undead dragon’s head quirked the side, just a bit, and it made Tyrion’s heart ache because it reminded him of the curious nature Viserion had had in life.

“Say it again,” Clegane growled.

“What?”

“He heard you.  Say it again.”

Tyrion shook his head, not understanding.  “Viserion?”

The undead dragon let out a squawk and the Night King pulled on his reins.  Tyrion’s mouth dropped open. Viserion had recognized his name.

“Viserion!” Tyrion bellowed as loud as he could, and then the undead dragon trilled from deep in his throat.  The Night King tried to jerk him back, kicking his heels into his sides, but Viserion bucked against him.

Rhaegal let out a puff of fire from his mouth, and the undead Viserion struggled closer, straining his neck towards the flames.  Rhaegal let out a bigger blast and bathed Viserions underbelly in fire. The icy scales flashed gold for a moment, and the wing membranes reddened.

Then, a javelin whizzed past Rhaegal’s head.

“We need to get out of here,’ Clegane said.  “That’s how the White Walkers got the last one--shot it down with a spear.”

“Rhaegal, we need to leave.  We will come back for your brother, I promise,” Tyrion said, and by some miracle of all the gods, Rhaegal listened and took off into the sky, gaining altitude and putting himself out of javelin range.

“What just happened?” Arya asked, her voice still shaky from crying.

“Prince Rhaegar was right,” Varys said.  “The dragon has three heads.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you ITC for the beta :D


	28. The Twins

**The Twins**

 

**(rape mentioned)**

 

It had been a month since they’d taken the Twins. The days grew ever shorter and it was getting colder, but the Green Fork had yet to freeze over.  Sheets of ice floated down the river, jockeying for position as they battered into one another. The men were keeping busy policing the Kingsroad and making the Neck safe again.  Podrick had even bumped into some of the crannogmen and secured an alliance.

The northern refugees would be here within a fortnight, including the Dragon Queen and her entourage.   Jaime was…unenthused to say the least. It was one thing to bend the knee to her through a raven with half of Westeros between them  It was quite another to bend his _actual_ knee and kneel before her, the daughter of Aerys, the woman who had burned his men alive.  He wondered if she knew it was him who had charged at her. If so, things could get shitty, as Bronn had so eloquently put it last night when they’d been sharing a pint in the great hall.

Jaime leaned against the railing and looked down into the yard below.  Bronn was down there as he had been ever since the midwives had given him the all clear to train again.  He wore his usual black leathers, and, while his right arm moved with him, the fingers hung limp and useless.  He had his sword firmly grasped in his left hand and he was squaring off with a Lannister soldier. Jaime had already watched him knock two squires into the snow.

After the injury Bronn had sustained, Jaime’d wondered if Bronn would descend into a booze-fueled spiral of self-destruction, and he’d preoccupied himself with working out ways to help Bronn through it.  It had taken up every waking moment, to the point that he’d even ran an idea past Brienne mid-fuck. She’d huffed in irritation from where she sat straddled across his hips, but instead of telling him to shut up and keep fucking her as Cersei would have, she stopped her gyrations long enough for them to talk about it.  He’d made it up to her in the end.

As he watched Bronn begin to work on the soldier, moving so naturally that it looked like a dance, he heard someone thumping up the wooden stairs behind him, and then Brienne leaned down on the rail next to him: Lady Brienne, the first woman knight of Westeros.  Edmure had done the deed a few weeks back, and he’d sent a raven to the Citadel so it could be recorded properly. Brienne had decided that she would keep her title of lady, saying that it was growing on her. Now she watched Bronn with an appraising eye, and when he would move in a particularly deft way, she would hum and nod in approval.

It irritated Jaime that, unlike himself, Bronn was able to flip everything around in his mind so easily.  Jaime knew there were people that were naturally more gifted with their off hand--some could even fight with one or the other just as easily.  Bronn wasn’t _that_ good, but it still stuck in Jaime’s craw.   _Fucking sellsword._  But deep down it put Jaime at ease knowing that Bronn was getting closer to being able to defend himself again.  Bronn could be utterly charming but he could also really piss people off--something they had in common.

“How the hells can he be so good already?” Jaime grumbled after Bronn disarmed the soldier.

“Well, for one thing, I’m certain this isn’t the first time he’s had to fight with his left,” Brienne answered matter-of-factly.

“What do you mean?” Jaime asked and turned to face her.  Brienne remained where she was, watching the fight.

“When we were young, if you or I would get injured, we’d simply take a week off from training.  Bronn’s _needed_ to fight to stay alive since he was a boy.”

“True enough,” Jaime conceded as he looked back to the yard.  There was no taking a week off when you grew up on the streets of Flea Bottom.  “But it’s still annoying.”

“Don’t be jealous.  Besides, you’re good at other things,” Brienne replied, then he felt her hand slide beneath his cloak and settle on the small of his back.

Gods, she’d been insatiable lately.  Not that he was complaining, but ever since they’d taken the Twins, they’d lain together nearly every night.  After their first few nights together at Riverrun, he’d finally gotten his head out of his ass and started pulling out instead of spilling inside her.  Well, mostly. They’d been tempting fate a bit too much.

Then Bronn hollered up to them.  “Didn’t know I had an audience!”

Jaime leaned over the railing to see Bronn grinning, and then he gave them a mocking bow.

“Could you go down there and knock his cocky ass into the snow for me,” Jaime asked as he pulled Brienne up against him.

“Why don’t you do it yourself?” Brienne asked, a little smirk playing on her lips.

There’s a thought.  It would be payback for the training sessions on the oceanfront of King’s Landing.  But then Brienne leaned in close and whispered, “I’d love to see it.” She dragged her lips along his neck and the action sent a pang of longing straight to his groin.

“Marry me.” he murmured as he ran his hand into her hair.  They hadn’t spoken about it since they’d taken the Twins. And there was no septon here, but Jaime figured he’d try his luck.

“Alright,” she replied and he nearly fell out of his own boots he was so surprised, but she put her hand on his chest and added, “If you can best Ser Bronn.”

“ _Bronn_ is the defender of your honor?” Jaime sputtered.  “How the mighty have fallen,”

“Lucky for you Sandor isn’t here,” Brienne replied.

Jaime scoffed at that, though he knew full well the Hound would utterly destroy him.  Time to change tactics. “I’ve always been under the impression that you were the defender of your own honor.  Why don’t we spar? Or are you afraid you’ll lose in front of all your soldiers to your soon-to-be lord husband?”

Brienne’s eyes narrowed and she pursed her lips as if she were about to say something, but then she just crossed her arms over her chest and waited.

“Fine, me against Bronn.   _And_ ,” Jaime added, “if I disarm him, you have to wear a dress for the wedding.”  Jaime had given her so much grief over that pink dress she’d been forced to wear, but in truth he thought she hadn’t looked half-bad.  Her neck and shoulders were nearly elegant, thick as they were.

“Done.”

“Good.”  Jaime took her hand and kissed it, then whispered as he walked past her, “I’ll be ripping your bodice off in no time.”

 

“And what do I get if I disarm _you_?” Bronn asked, turning his sword around in his left hand, casually, arrogantly.  Jaime probably shouldn’t have told him about the specifics of the bet, but he couldn’t stop himself.

“Anything you want, because it’s not going to happen,” Jaime replied, swinging his own blunted sword in a figure eight as he began to circle Bronn.

“Anything I want, then, is it?”  Bronn stood his ground, eyes twinkling.  “How’s about I join you two on your wedding night?  I’ll show your lady what a proper fucking really is.”

Jaime ignored him as they began to spar, swords meeting in a quick flurry of strikes.  He knew Bronn was trying to goad him into a misstep, and it wasn’t going to work.

“Or maybe it’s you who needs a proper fucking.  Wonder if your lady would mind,” Bronn drawled as he stepped back, just out of reach of Jaime's cross-body swing.  The missed strike set Jaime off balance. He got his feet back under himself and squared off again.

“The way you piss her off sometimes, I bet she’d enjoy seeing you fucked up the ass,” Bronn purred.  “Wouldn’t even need to touch your cock to get you off.”

 _Wait--what?_  Jaime froze and his mouth dropped open as a flood of strange imagery swamped his head.  Heat rushed through him and he was suddenly more sexually confused than he’d ever been in his life--and that was saying something.  And the next thing he knew, he was flat on his back, his sword clattering across the frozen ground. Bronn stood over him for a moment and gave him a satisfied smirk, then he turned to Brienne up on the balcony and gave her a deep, sweeping bow.

“Well fought, Ser Bronn,” Brienne called down.

“It was my pleasure, m’lady,” Bronn replied and sauntered over to where Jaime’s sword lay on the ground.  He flicked it up into his hand using the toe of his boot.

“But-but, he cheated!  He said-” Jaime ground his teeth together.  Brienne was looking down at him with one brow raised inquisitively.  “It’s just, he wouldn’t stop talking. It’s distracting.”

“Now you know how I feel,” Brienne replied.

“Aye, gave you a taste of your own medicine,” Bronn added, but his eyes were dark and pupils wide, whether from the fight or from something else Jaime wasn’t sure.  But one thing he was sure of was that they were ganging up on him.

“Alright, fine.  I’m going to wash up for dinner.  Since you two seem to love teaming up against me, why don’t you spend some quality time together.”  Then he looked up pointedly at Brienne and gave her a wicked smile. “And maybe _Ser Bronn_ can tell you what he wins since he managed to disarm me.”

Brienne’s brow furrowed in confusion and Bronn stuck his thumbs in the waist of his pants and looked at the ground.  And with the advantage firmly back on his side, Jaime left the practice yard to let Bronn explain that one.

 

Later that evening after dinner, Jaime ran into Lady Roslin.  And she was surprisingly drunk, bumbling around on the bridge that spanned the Green Fork.  She was so tiny and frail, and her eyes were barely open. Jaime was shocked, quite frankly, to find her in such a state.  He’d never seen her so much as take a sip of wine.

“My lady,” Jaime said as he approached her.  She had a cloak on, but barely. It hung off her, pulling on her bony shoulders as if it were to great a weight for her to bear. The cold wind whipped her brown hair around her so it was difficult to see her face.

“Oh, good evening,” she muttered and immediately tried to run away, but she got herself caught up in her skirts and she fell onto the stone walkway.

“Whoa there,” Jaime said as he grabbed her around the middle.  Good fucking gods, she would end up in the river in the state she was in.  She was so thin that he could have wrapped his hands around her waist. He hauled her to her feet and tried to look her over for any injury, but she lurched into him.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.  I need to get back to my room,” she muttered.  She was slurring her words and her feet were completely useless.  Jaime had to hold her up.

“My lady, it’s me, Ser Jaime.”

“Oh, Ser Jaime.  I can’t have you see my like this.  Please don’t tell my lord husband.”

“Where is Edmure?” Jaime asked.  Edmure should have been taking care of her, and Jaime was eager to pawn her off on him.

“He’s with little Redmond.  Lady Brienne thought of that name.  She’s wonderful. I wish she’d been here before, when they came.  She would have killed them all,” Roslin mumbled, her face turned into Jaime’s cloak.  Then she went silent.

“Come, let’s get you something to eat,” Jaime said and scooped her up into his arms.  She felt like a child, so light and petite. There was nothing to her, and he wondered how she’d survived Vargo Hoat.

He carried her to the doors that lead into the southern castle, then put her on her feet.

“It’s best if you walk in on your own, my lady.”  But he kept his arm around her, holding her up as they went.  They got quite a few interested glances as they made their way to a hearth in the back of the great hall.  Jaime deposited Roslin into a chair then went to the kitchen women to ask for a loaf of bread, butter, and a jug of water.

“Here, have something,” Jaime said as he sunk into a chair opposite her.  “You’ll thank me in the morning.”

“Thank you, ser.”  Roslin leaned forward and grabbed the entire loaf of bread, dipped it into the slab of butter, and took a bite off the end.  She was apparently too drunk to have any sense of etiquette. Not that Jaime cared; fuck etiquette

Jaime watched her eat for a time, then he poured her a glass of water and gave it to her.  He wasn’t quite sure why he was taking care of this woman, but it felt right. For whatever reason, he felt particularly bad for her.  Jaime couldn’t even begin fathom what had happened to her since her wedding night.

“Redmond is a fine boy,” Jaime ventured.  “Edmure is no doubt pleased.” Fuck, he was going to need a glass of wine.  He hailed the serving woman and got a pitcher of wine for himself, keeping it on the floor at his side, out of sight of Roslin.  He knew enough to do that. His experiences with Tyrion had taught him.

“I kept him safe,” Rosin said.  “I did it to keep our boy safe.”

“You did well, my lady.  Edmure knows that. He loves you for it.”

“But he doesn’t know,” Roslin whimpered into her sleeve.  “He doesn’t know what I had to do.” And then she was wailing uncontrollably, raking at her face and hair.

“Roslin, stop,” Jaime said sternly and grabbed on of her wrists, forcing her hand from her face.  He looked over his shoulder and saw two soldiers staring at them. He jerked his head, silently telling them to move the fuck along.

Roslin took a shaky breath and settled her hands back in her lap.  “I took pleasure in it.” Her voice was quiet and halting. “My body did, I mean.  No matter how much my mind tried to stop it, I couldn’t control it. He touched me in places so that I couldn’t not…” she trailed off and shook her head.

Jaime’s heart ached, and he felt like he couldn’t breathe, as if something was pressing down on his chest.  It was a heavy weight, one he’d carried with him since he’d left Cersei behind. He thought he’d stashed it away for good, but now to hear it from the mouth of someone else, he realized it was still there.  The last few times he’d been with Cersei, the times after Euron and Ellaria and the Blackwater Rush, his mind had screamed ‘no’ but his body wouldn’t listen, responding to Cersei’s touches against his will. He’d hated himself for it, just as Roslin must hate herself.

“It is not your fault, my lady.  None of this is your fault. He forced you when he threatened your child.  Regardless of how your body responded, he took you against your will. Edmure knows this.  He loves you fiercely.” Jaime never thought he’d be speaking so highly of Edmure, but of all men, Edmure was probably the best man to help Roslin through this.  He truly loved her, and he was kind-hearted to a fault.

Roslin nodded then wiped her cheeks.  “I should go to my room, Ser Jaime. I’ve taken up enough of your time.”

Jaime called over one of the serving women and told her to take Lady Roslin to bed.  He would have taken her himself but he thought it would be unwise to be seen escorting a drunk married woman to her bedchamber.  He and Edmure had developed a grudging respect and working relationship with one another, but Edmure would always be wary of him.  He was a Lannister, after all.

 

That night, when Jaime finally returned to his and Brienne’s bedchamber, he found her standing next to the fire wrestling with the straps of her breastplate.  She wore only her shift underneath and he couldn’t quite figure out what she was doing. She spun around when she heard the door open.

“What are you doing?” Jaime asked.

“Nothing.  Just adjusting some things,” she replied.  “I wrote my father,” she said and gave him a meek smile.  “That I am to be married.”

A smile bloomed on Jaime’s face.  “There’s sure to be a septon among the northern refugees.  And I’ll have you know that Bronn did cheat.”

“I know, he told me,” Brienne answered.  She went to take the breastplate off, but Jaime walked over to her and stopped her.

“Why haven’t you been practicing in the yard lately?” he asked, naturally taking her hand in his as he spoke to her, drawing little circles on her palm with his thumb.  “Are hiding some injury from me?”

“No,” Brienne said glumly.

“Then what is it?  You can tell me.”

“It’s just--I can’t,” she began then sighed in disgust.  “I’ve gotten _fat,_ Jaime.  My armor doesn’t fit.”

“What?  That’s not possible.  You look the same to me.”

“Well I can’t even loop the straps anymore, so unless someone shrunk my armor, it’s the only explanation.”  She sounded ridiculously feminine, fretting over her figure.

“Oh stop, let me see.  Perhaps you just need new fastenings,” Jaime said and crouched down to look at her side.  He tried to loop the strap through but he couldn’t, and then he saw that her armor wasn’t laying right across her belly.   _Had_ she gotten fat?  How was that possible?

“I don’t understand why this doesn’t fit anymore,” Jaime mumbled and he ran his hand beneath the breastplate, across her belly....her distended belly.  It was rounded and firm and-- _Oh, fuck._

“Oh, fuck,” Brienne said.  Their eyes met and then she burst into tears.  He pulled her against him as her body was wracked with gasping sobs.  Oh gods, this was all his fault--he’d been a damned fool. But as her weeping subsided, her lips sought his and they kissed until finally they were both laughing.  Jaime wiped her tears away, and softly pressed his lips to her forehead. Then he helped her take the breastplate off over her head and put his hand back on her belly.

“Hello in there,” he whispered.

“I can’t believe this,” Brienne said, but she was smiling.

“Are you happy?” Jaime asked, unable to hold back his own grin.

“Yes,” she replied, and she put her own hand on top of his.

They stood there together, the three of them, their little family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you ITC, you are such an awesome beta!!
> 
> Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed :D Sorry about the delay between chapters, I hit a wall and couldn't get anything written for whatever reason, but I should be back to regular updates now. I'm thinking next is going to be Tyrion's POV.


	29. King's Landing

**King’s Landing**

It was another beautiful morning in the gardens.  Qyburn strolled the cobblestone path through the flowerbed.  The plants had lost their colorful petals and had gone to seed.  Most people could only find beauty in the blooms, but Qyburn saw it even now, in the end of the flowers’ life cycle.  Bees still buzzed around, angry due to the creeping cold, searching fruitlessly for nectar. Qyburn leaned in close to watch one little honey bee wrestle with a withered bloom.  Once it found that its attempt was in vain, in took off and flew at Qyburn’s face. Qyburn stepped back and smiled. Silly little creatures, so terrified of what they perceived as the end.  But summer would come again, and with it, more bees.

“Good morning, Lord Hand,” a groundskeeper greeted him.

“Ah, good morning Thomas,” he replied and gave the man a smile.

“Have you been to the arboretum?  The maples have turned a brilliant red just this past week.”

“Why no, I will have to walk down that way.  Have a lovely day, Thomas.”

“Thank you, Lord Hard,” Thomas replied with a bow and then he continued on his way.

Tension in the keep had been high after Ser Robert Strong had begun misbehaving.  Qyburn had become quite unpopular, especially after the second and third handmaiden had been killed.  But after a week of studying maps and closing certain gates in the castle, Qyburn had managed to contain Robert Strong to an unused section of the western  wing. While his creature was still evading capture, at least he was unable to damage anyone else.

After walking through the arboretum, through the grove of maples that were so red it looked like they were on fire, Qyburn returned to his laboratory.  He’d acquired a very capable and trustworthy assistant, Felwyn, over the course of his tenure as Hand, and she was hard at work on various experiments.

“Have there been any sightings of Ser Robert today?” Qyburn asked.

“Not yet, my lord.  He’s avoided the food laced with the sleeping agent too.”

“Hm, interesting.  We may need to switch to another medication.  Something odorless.” Ser Robert had a magnificent sense of smell.  Qyburn still believed that had contributed to his aberrant behavior toward the Queen.  The smell of that much blood must have driven him wild.

“Patient F is in the beginning stages of labor,” Felwyn added.

“Ah, excellent,” Qyburn replied.  Now this was good news. Patient F had been treated with the most promising protocol, and upon examination the fetus had been growing very well.  Her uterus was measuring above average and the head was of normal size and had descended into the pelvis weeks ago. “How is she faring?”

“She is tolerating the pain, but I would like to administer milk of the poppy soon to ease her distress.”

“Oh course, Felwyn.  Please, keep her comfortable.”

Felwyn smiled and went to fetch a vial of the pain reliever.  A calm patient was always desirable--Qyburn had taught her that early on.

Qyburn had begun this particular experiment shortly after the Queen had “lost” her false pregnancy.  And when Qyburn had found out that Ser Jaime was unavailable, he’d had to adjust the parameters accordingly.  It hadn’t taken long for a dozen or so dwarves to be captured and delivered to the Red Keep. Apparently, you really could buy anything, and never before had Qyburn had so much gold at his disposal to fund his research.

 

He took his midday meal in the lab, not wanting to be far away when Patient F was delivered of the child.  Felwyn ate with him, a simple meal of bread, cheese, and a bit of roasted chicken. They drank only water--no wine.  It fogged the mind. He smiled as he listened to Felwyn speak. She was incredibly intelligent with a sensible head on her shoulders.  Qyburn had been lonely for so long with no one to converse with. He was lucky to have found her.

A page came to deliver a raven scroll to him shortly after lunch.  Qyburn accepted it and gave the page a silver stag. Then he closed the door and unrolled the scroll.  His eyes moved quickly over the words.

“What lovely timing,” he said to himself.  Lord Tyrion’s ship was just cruising into Blackwater Bay.  Qyburn had known he was planning to return to the capital for some time.  Word had reached his ears that Tyrion was in need of wildfire and lots of it.  Queen Cersei needed to be informed at once. She would do her part and throw Tyrion in the Black Cells, and then Qyburn’s part would begin.

 

The Gold Cloaks brought Tyrion into the throne room in fetters later that evening.  He looked tired and older than the last time Qyburn had seen him. Tyrion’s hair was long and his beard was unkempt, ragged, and laced with silver.

Qyburn stood next to the empty throne, his hands clasped before him.

“Lord Tyrion, welcome.  How may I be of service to you?” he asked calmly.

“I need to speak with my sister.  But apparently she doesn’t feel like gracing me with her lovely presence.”

“The Queen is unavailable, Lord Tyrion.  You may say whatever you have to say to me instead.”

“I’ve come to negotiate a trade.  I need all the wildfire she has.”

“The Queen does not negotiate with oathbreaking traitors,” Qyburn replied softly, as he knew it would incite Tyrion even more.  Qyburn watched peacefully as Tyrion’s lip curled up and his face turned red.

“I am not the one who betrayed the truce!  Cersei never had any intention of sending troops north.  She was content to sit here in her castle and watch the rest of us die.  I was willing to give her what she’s wanted most of all. I stuck my neck out for her, and she lied to my face.”

Oh my, Tyrion was indeed angry, even more so than Qyburn had anticipated.  Tyrion was a man of science-- intelligent, scholarly. But he had quite the temper.  Qyburn supposed his reaction was understandable though. At the Dragon Pit, Tyrion had offered Queen Cersei a marriage to Ser Jaime and Casterly Rock to go with.  It would have been a good offer ten years ago, but Queen Cersei was not so easily won anymore.

“You were willing, yes, but your brother on the other hand…” Qyburn trailed off and shrugged his shoulders.  He saw Tyrion’s jaw drop, just a bit. Not enough that his mouth opened, but enough for Qyburn to know that Tyrion took his meaning that it was Jaime who had refused the offer, not Cersei.

“That’s ridiculous,” Tyrion said, taken aback.  “You would stand here and tell me lies while the dead march ever closer?  Let me speak with Cersei; you’re wasting my time.”

“Ah yes, well unfortunately the Queen has commanded that you be placed under arrest and taken to the Black Cells.”  Qyburn nodded to the Gold Cloaks, and they took Tyrion by the arms and led him away.

“Well, now that that is done, I should get back to the lab,” Qyburn said to himself  Then he slipped out of the throne room and rushed down the stairs two at a time, eager to see how Patient F’s labor was progressing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my awesome beta ITC for helping me salvage this part. It was a total wreck before!! Like total. I'm sorry it's a short chapter but it's a set up for what's to come :)
> 
> Thank you very much for reading!


	30. King's Landing (part two)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cersei POV. Just a reminder, I'm not using archive warnings, but I will continue to try to warn you guys if something really upsetting is going to happen!
> 
> Thank you ITC you are awesome and such a reliable, fast beta!

**King’s Landing (part two)**

 

Cersei stood on the balcony overlooking Blackwater Bay.  The air was crisp and clean off the bay with none of the stench of the city on it.  In a week’s time, she would be watching the Greyjoy fleet sailing into the harbor, bringing with it 20,000 swords that would be at her command.  Of course, Euron Greyjoy would be with them, and he was so stupid that he fully expected to wed and bed her upon his return. Qyburn was working out a solution to that.  He was the most intelligent person she knew. Her anger toward him after the Ser Gregor incident had been short lived. Not even an hour after she had banished him from her sight, she’d had to send for him again.  She’d begun bleeding heavily. Thick purplish clots poured from her, and for a few horrifying moments she’d thought it was a malformed babe. Qyburn had returned and taken care of her. He’d been able to stop the bleeding in minutes.

She’d never bled as much as she had that night, not even after Myrcella.  Her only daughter had come into the world easily enough, but when Cersei had reached out to cradle the sweet babe to her chest, she’d suddenly felt dizzy and her eyesight had dimmed to black.  Blood began to gush out of her as Maester Pycelle tried to remove the afterbirth. It was stuck, he said, and she would have screamed at him to get his filthy hands out of her cunt if she’d had the energy.  Finally he pulled it out and dropped it into a pan with splat, and then the midwives pressed down so hard on her belly that she thought she was going to throw up.

She’d been able to hear Jaime outside raging, demanding to know what was happening, and she remembered loving the power she had over him in that moment.  Jaime, Tywin’s golden son, Kingsguard, the best swordsman in the realm, brought to his knees over her.

_ Idiot. _  The stupid fucking idiot.  When she’d found out he’d managed to make it to Riverrun, she’d had to bite the inside of her cheek so hard to keep from flying into a rage that she’d made herself bleed.  Then she’d locked herself in her chambers and drank wine until the pain went away, and then she’d been able to think more clearly. She’d called for Qyburn and his little assistant, and they’d come up with a way to blame the breaking of the truce on Jaime.

Someone knocked softly on her chamber door behind her.  She turned to face the door and folded her hands in front of her.  She wore a new dress of black velvet with exposed boning at the waist.  Her seamstresses had had to take it in a few times to get it right.

“Enter,” she commanded.

A tall, elegant girl entered carrying a tray of food and a pitcher of wine.  It was Qyburn’s assistant, Felwyn. She wore plain black robes that gathered in an effortlessly pleasing way around her long neck.  Her blonde hair was tied into a knot high atop her head. Cersei found her nearly pretty enough to be a Lannister except for her unfortunate overbite.

“Good morning, Your Grace,” Felwyn said with a curtsy.  She placed the silver tray on a small table. The black robes were maester’s robes, some of Pycelle’s old clothes that Cersei had had thoroughly washed and tailored to fit Felwyn.  It gave Cersei pleasure to see a woman wear them. The girl was more intelligent than half of the crusty old men in the Citadel and she hadn’t even seen her sixteenth name day yet.

Cersei gave her a closed-mouth smile then sat down at the table.  Soft boiled eggs, strips of bacon, and an salad of dark green leaves topped with tiny tomatoes were on the tray.  Felwyn poured a cup of wine for her, and Cersei took a delicate sip. It was strong and bold, with none of the sickly sweet fruitiness of her old wine.  It bit into her tongue and she savored the flavor. There was no bread or sweet breakfast cakes. Qyburn had prescribed her a specific diet and she’d been extremely pleased with the results.  She felt strong and lean, and even her gowns from years ago were fitting her again. And she could have wine, thank the gods, because she would need it for what she was going to have to do. But it wouldn’t be fucking Euron Greyjoy.  That would fall to some unlucky whore.

“Has Qyburn found a substitute to take my place for when Euron Greyjoy returns?” Cersei asked.  Euron was a disgusting creton, and she’d rather open her own throat than let his filthy cock anywhere near her.  Qyburn planned to drug him and stick him on some poor whore who bore a resemblance to Cersei.

“Yes, Your Grace.  She is your size and will cut her hair to match.”

Cersei popped a tomato into her mouth and bit down slowly, until the fruit burst against her tongue with a satisfying pop.

“Good.  And Ser Gregor?  Has he been captured yet?”

“No, not yet,” Felwyn said.  “However, he is contained to a small section of the western wing.”  Felwyn chose her words carefully, and she remained standing a few paces back from the table.  The girl was smart, and she recognized power when she saw it, but she never simpered or attempted to ingratiate herself to Cersei.  It was refreshing.

“Excellent.”  Initially, Cersei had wanted Ser Gregor destroyed, but Qyburn had been adamant that he could salvage him.  It would have been quite a waste.

Cersei took another sip of her wine.  Tyrion had been in the black cells for three days now.  She would have liked to let him rot there for the rest of his life, but unfortunately that was not part of the plan.  Qyburn had already planted the seed in Tyrion’s head that Jaime had been the one to refuse the deal Tyrion had come up with: Cersei marrying Jaime and taking the Rock.  Now it was her turn to speak with Tyrion.

In truth, the entire plan made her sick, but Qyburn had promised it would only take one time, and then Cersei would have an heir.  Jaime was lost to her and would be dead within the year along with the rest of the North, and at least Tyrion was intelligent. He could be shrewd and ruthless even, and perhaps he had been the heir Tywin had always wanted, only Tyrion was trapped in that stunted form much like she herself was trapped in a woman’s.

For some time now, Qyburn had expressed his interest in optimizing the human body.  Apparently, his experiments went back years to a time before he was living in King’s Landing.  Through these experiments, Qyburn had discovered a way to ensure her child would not be born a dwarf.   And without that risk, did it really matter if it was Tyrion or Jaime who sired her child? The child would be hers, and hers alone, just as all her other children had been.  She would keep the Lannister bloodline pure.

“Another healthy child was born yesterday,” Felwyn said, as if she knew what Cersei was thinking.  It was uncanny. “A boy. Strong and of normal size.”

Cersei nodded and bit down on another tomato.  She’d been paraded naked through the streets, she’d had shit flung at her, she’d lost three children.  Seven hells, she’d had to suffer beneath the rutting of Robert, the fat, sweaty beast who’d never appreciated her.  She could surely do this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it's gonna be getting crazy in King's Landing. I have had this idea for awhile now, and I was super nervous to do it, but here it is! I really hope it's not too out there :D
> 
> Up next should be a Brienne POV and I think Daenerys is going to get to the Twins in that chapter. Also I promise Sandor is coming back. Thank you very much for reading!!


	31. The Twins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edmure in the house!
> 
> Thank you once again, ITC :D

**The Twins**

 

The sky was pre-dawn grey when Edmure woke up.  He’d become an early riser during his captivity, waking every day with the sunrise, and then as the days grew shorter, before it rose.  Formerly, he’d been known to sleep until midday, especially after a particularly rowdy feast or taxing day of hunting, but now nothing could keep him from his early morning training sessions in the yard.

Well, almost nothing.

Redmond came flying around the corner, his little feet slapping wildly on the stone.  He was quick on his feet, almost too quick, as Edmure sometimes thought he looked like a runaway wagon on the brink of crashing into a merchant stall.

“Daddy!” he yelled and then pulled just short of ramming into Edmure’s knee.  “Daddy, play swords!”

A flustered maid, breathless and red in the face, came around the corner next.

“Oh, m’lord.  I’m so sorry he got away from me.  The little lord is fast.”

Redmond grinned at what he perceived as a compliment.

Edmure held up his hand.  “It’s alright,” he said to try to put the poor woman at ease.  Then he knelt down and looked his son in the eye. “I promise to play swords with you later, and we mustn’t run away from our nanny, Red.”

His son’s face fell.  “Yes, daddy,” he said, and it was so endearing that Edmure had to press his lips together to avoid smiling.  “Sorry, Nana,” he added as the maid joined them. Then he looked up at her from beneath his red hair and gave her a sweet smile.

“Oh, he’s a charmer, m’lord,” she said and pet Redmond’s head fondly.

“Where is Lady Roslin?” Edmure asked.  Redmond would usually be eating his morning meal with her at this time.  He felt like he’d made some progress with his lady wife. They were sharing a bed now, though they weren’t doing anything more than sleeping in it, and she’d kissed him good night a few times--chastely--but still it was progress.  He’d vowed to resist pressuring her for more, which was quite a feat since he hadn’t lain with a woman since his wedding night, and his hand just wasn’t the same. When-- _ if _ , the pessimistic voice in his head reminded him--Roslin did finally open up to him, Edmure wanted to know that it was because she wanted to, not because of anything he’d forced on her.

“My lady is in bed,” the maid said.  “She’s not feeling well this morning.”

“Is it a fever?” Edmure asked, worry creeping up his spine.

“No, no, m’lord, nothing like that.  It’s--” the maid hesitated for a beat, “it’s women’s troubles.  Nothing to be alarmed about.”

“Oh,” Edmure sighed in relief.  “Alright. Be sure she has whatever she needs.”

“Yes m’lord.”  She curtsied then held out her hand to Redmond.  “Come along now, time for breakfast.”

 

Edmure met with the castellan, Edmund Blackwood, in the great hall of the southern castle.  He was a Riverlander, the fourth son of Lord Blackwood of Raventree, and while he was slightly inexperienced, he had an air of authority about him, and he was eager to please his lord paramount.  Edmund was younger than Edmure by a good five years. Edmure had expected Ser Jaime to put up a fight at the appointment, perhaps to even try to place his own man, that sellsword Ser Bronn, in charge of the Twins, but he hadn’t.  Perhaps age was dulling the lion’s claws.

“There’s been word from the northern scouts,” Edmund said as Edmure approached.  “A dragon on the horizon. We’ve sent out riders to reinforce the refugees from Winterfell.”

“How long until they arrive?”

“A day, maybe two.  Also, there’s a raven from White Harbor for Ser Jaime.  It bears his brother’s seal” Edmund proffered the sealed scroll to him, an unspoken question hanging between them--should they open it?  Edmure took it. It was still cold from the outdoors.

“I will deliver it to Ser Jaime myself,” Edmure said.  Jaime and the Lady Brienne had taken up residence in the northern tower’s upper floors.

Edmund nodded and drew close to him.  “How is your lady wife, my lord?” The man’s voice was thick and graveled.  Edmure’s jaw tightened. What was this about?

“I can tell you have something to say.  Speak your piece, Edmund.”

“The night watchmen came to me this morning.  They said they saw Lady Roslin and Ser Jaime drinking late last night.  She was…” Edmund paused, swallowing once. “She was in his arms at one point, my lord.”

A cold hand clutched at his heart and a wave of prickly heat came over him.  He tried to focus on Edmund’s face, but all he could see was red.

“Are these men trustworthy?  Are they certain of what they saw?” Edmure ground out.  He didn’t know who it would behove to drive a wedge between himself and Ser Jaime.  Hells, they had a tenuous relationship as it was.

“I believe so, my lord.  I asked a few of the soldiers I knew were in the great hall last night, and they saw them as well.  These men claim they didn’t see him touch her, but the lady was drunk and crying at one point.”

“I want no one to speak of this until I can sort it out.  I’ll be in the yard,” Edmure growled. It was taking every ounce of self-control he had in him to keep from storming across the bridge, into the northern castle, and smashing the Kingslayer’s face in, but some stupid, sane part of his brain, the tiny sliver of it that was still functioning, was advising prudence.  For whatever reason, of all the accusations that had ever been leveled at Jaime Lannister, this was the both the most disgusting and improbable of them all.

  
  


On his way to the yard, Edmure stopped at the kitchen to grab a few rashers of bacon and bread.  The women always tried to feed him more, doting over their liege lord, but Edmure prefered a light breakfast.  Then he turned down a corridor that had windows overlooking the Green Fork. The riverbanks were covered in snow but the river had yet to freeze, though occasionally a thin sheet of ice would drift down from somewhere upstream.  He was just nearing the yard when he saw the tall, towheaded form of Lady Brienne. She was standing in the hallway, her face ashen and her hand braced against the wall.

“My lady,” Edmure said and when he saw how pale she was, he hurried to her side to keep her from fainting onto the floor.  Her lips were bloodless. Gods, he realized, she must have heard the rumor too. Edmure’s lip curled up and his fists squeezed together, palms sweaty.  As if it wasn’t bad enough, with his actions the Kingslayer had shamed Lady Brienne as well.

“My lady, are you alright?” Edmure asked.  Brienne held her arms around her abdomen as she stared at some point far away, lost in her thoughts.  Edmure reached out and gently took her by the elbow. “You should sit; you look unwell.”

Finally, Brienne met his eyes.  She had lovely blue eyes, nearly unnatural in their clarity and color, and she straightened herself up and took a breath.

“No, I’m fine.  Thank you Ser Edmure.  I’ve just been to see the midwife.”  Brienne smiled shyly. “I suppose there’s no point in trying to hide it; the midwife says I’m five moons gone already.”

“Congratulations, my lady,” Edmure said, forcing a smile though inside his anger with the Kingslayer was reaching its boiling point.  He clenched and unclenched his fist at his side, crumbling something in his fist. The raven scroll, he vaguely remembered.

“Thank you, Ser Edmure.  Ser Jaime and I are to be married soon.  We are hoping there will be a septon among the northern refugees.

“That’s excellent news, my lady,” Edmure said, his voice raw in his throat.

“My lord father asks a favor, that you give me away in his stead.  You are the lord paramount here, and as I have been the sworn sword of both Lady Catelyn and Lady Sansa, I would be honored if you would accept.”

“Of course, my lady.  It would be my honor.”   _ I will gladly do it as long as I do not kill your intended beforehand. _

Brienne smiled.  “Thank you. I won’t keep you any longer.  I feel much better.” Brienne bowed to him.  Edmure mirrored the action then stalked off to the training yard.

 

The morning was crisp, and there was the scent of woodsmoke on the air from the braziers that burned in the yard.  Edmure nodded to some of his soldiers then his eyes fell upon two men in black leather sparring, both holding swords in their left hands.  Edmure watched them for a bit. It was impressive, really, especially in Bronn’s case. He’d only switched to his left recently, but he seemed to be serviceable already.  Neither would present a problem for Edmure, though. He could beat both of them if it came to that. It was empowering being skilled with a sword, and he should have trained harder in his youth, but better late than never.  He only wished his Uncle Brynden could see him now.

“Ser Jaime,” Edmure said as he strode over to them.  “A word in private.”

Jaime glanced at Bronn and the sellsword shrugged and wandered off.

Edmure closed in on Jaime.  He was going to try to be diplomatic, but he found Jaime’s haughty golden face enraging, and before he knew it he was grabbing Jaime my the collar of his jerkin, a sneer on his lips.  Jaime’s eyes widened in an incredulous expression. Playing innocent, just as a Lannister would. Edmure wouldn’t fall for that.

“Did you touch my wife?” Edmure growled in his ear.  “You touched her, don’t deny it. My men saw you.”

“Edmure, what are you talking about?  Are you talking about last night?”

“Has there been more than one night?  You think to cuckold me like you did King Robert, and meanwhile you plant a bastard babe in Lady Brienne.  She says you are to be married. Does she know you are treating her like a common whore?”

Jaime’s punch came fast and with his left, pummeling Edmure in the mouth and knocking him back.  But only for a moment. Edmure lunged at Jaime, knocked him down and pinned him to the frozen ground with his forearm across Jaime’s neck.  Rage took him. How could he ever have let his guard down and trusted a Lannister?

Then Jaime kneed him in the ribs and that sent them to rolling across the ground, each fighting for the upper hand.  Edmure got a hit in, smashing his elbow into Jaime’s face and then men were pulling them apart. Ser Bronn had Jaime around the waist, and two Tully men had taken Edmure under the armpits.  Edmure was pleased to see blood running down Jaime’s face.

“What the bloody fuck are you two cunts doing?” Bronn yelled.

“You touched my wife,” Edmure said.  “You disgrace the Lady Brienne.”

“Now wait just a minute.  Jaime’s not touching anyone’s wife.  He’s faithful to the point of stupidity.  Up until recently, he hadn’t fucked anyone but his sister for bloody decades.”

Well, that was awkward.  Edmure’s jaw dropped a bit and Jaime turned flaming red.  Bronn still held him around the waist, so Jaime turned to look over his shoulder at him.

“Thank you Ser Bronn for so eloquently defending me,” Jaime said sarcastically.

Bronn let him go.  “Well, it’s true. And we’ve got no time for this shit.”

Jaime turned back to Edmure.  “I found Lady Roslin stumbling on the bridge last night.  She could barely walk she was so drunk. I carried her inside to keep her from falling into the river.  I got her some water and had a serving woman take her back to her chambers.”

“Oh,” Edmure said.  He felt a bit foolish as he watched Jaime wipe the blood from his face.  “My apologies, Ser Jaime.” He tried to gauge Jaime’s expression, attempting to determine if an ‘I’m sorry’ would be enough.  Then he added, “The Dragon Queen will be here in the next day or two. Oh, and I have this for you.” Edmure still had the scroll in his hand, though it was smashed and sweat soaked now.

Jaime took it gingerly, pinching it between his thumb and forefinger.  It was crumpled and when Edmure realized Jaime couldn't flatten it out himself due to lack of right hand, Edmure helped him.  The ink was smeared, and Jaime looked up at him and arched his brow.

“It had Tyrion’s seal on it.  It must have fallen off in the tussle,” Edmure said.

“Well, I hope it was nothing important,” Jaime replied.

“Oh, I’m sure it wasn’t.  Not like we’re in the middle of a war or anything,” Bronn said, then he abruptly started laughing, sharp cracking laughs that grated on the ears.  Edmure failed to see what was so amusing, and Jaime just rolled his eyes and began to walk into the castle. Edmure followed, leaving Bronn to his cackling.  Gods, the man was obnoxious. No wonder he and Jaime got on so well.

They went to the nearest table and laid the scroll down flat, and both of them leaned over it in an effort to decipher the blurred script.

“The raven came from White Harbor,” Edmure said, squinting his eyes.  The beginning of each line was smudged beyond recognition because it had been rolled in his hand, but the rest was somewhat legible.

“Here I think it says he is leaving for King’s Landing.  And something about up the Twins--no the Trident. Up the Trident.  He must be planning on shipping the wildfire by boat,” Jaime said.

“Wildfire?” Edmure asked.  Did Tyrion mean to set the Trident ablaze much as he had the Blackwater Bay?  If executed properly, it could destroy a great deal of the army of the dead, and hold off the rest from crossing into the heart of the Riverlands.

“Yes, that’s the first part.  And now this says something about dragons.”

“This word is dragonfire,” Edmure said and pointed to a smudge.  “And this says Tarly.”

“The Tarly’s were burned in dragonfire.  Randyl and his heir,” Jaime said.

“Was his heir named Samwise?” Edmure asked.  He could barely make it out. “Or Samwell perhaps?”

“No, but Samwell is his other son.  He will probably be among the northern refugees when they arrive.”

“This second part of the letter is for him,” Edmure concluded.  “Perhaps he can make sense of it when he arrives.” Edmure stepped back from the table and looked Jaime over.  He wasn’t too bad off, not any more scuffed up than himself. It had actually felt good to tussle with him. Now that the air was cleared, Edmure felt like the fight had rid him of any lingering aggression he’d had toward Jaime.  He hoped Jaime felt the same.

“I hear congratulations are in order,” Edmure ventured.  “On your impending marriage...and fatherhood.”

“What?  How do you know that already?”

“I ran into Lady Brienne.  She looked ill, so I stopped to make sure she was alright.  She’d told me she’d just been to see the midwife.” Jaime’s face darkened, and Edmure quickly added, “She’s fine, just a bit overwhelmed but she was smiling when I left her.  And she told me Lord Selwyn has requested that I give her away in his stead at the wedding.”

“I better go check on her and see how it went with the midwife,” Jaime said, the hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.  The man was apparently too blissfully happy to remain mad at him for long, and Edmure found himself suddenly feeling a touch of envy.

 

After training in the yard and playing swords with little Redmond for a bit, Edmure gathered a loaf of bread, butter, and a large mug of cider and went to see how Roslin was faring.  His hands were full, so he knocked on the door with the toe of his boot, and he heard a soft voice say “enter.”

She was sitting on the edge of the bed looking out the north-facing window and when she saw it was him, her face lit up a bit, but only for a moment.  Then she looked down at her petite hands clasped in her lap. Soft brown curls fell around her shoulders, and it amazed him how beautiful she looked even hungover.

“How are you feeling, my dear?” he asked as he put the food and drink down on the table.

“Ashamed,” she said.  “I can’t remember how I got on the bridge, but Ser Jaime found me and took me inside.  He acted completely honorably. He listened to me babble like a foolish woman and made sure nothing ill befell me.”

“I know.  We, um, talked already.”  Edmure tentatively sat on the bed next to her.  “You know I love you. And you aren’t the only person in the history of Westeros to drink too much.  I’ve had my share of nights that I’d like to forget, but you must be careful. You could have fallen in the river,” he said, his voice catching in his throat.

Roslin nodded and then she placed her hand on his and Edmure’s heart swelled in his chest, moisture rising to his eyes so that he had to bite his tongue to keep from crying.  He turned his palm up to grasp her hand.

“Redmond is quite the little swordsman,” Edmure said.  “He ran me ragged with that tiny wooden sword of his.” Roslin smiled.  “Here, let me get you a cup of cider. It will help the headache. I know from experience.”  He poured her a bit of cider into a cup and handed it to her. She sipped gingerly on it then handed it back to him.  He put the cup back on the table and took his seat next to her again.

“And I have some exciting news.  There’s to be a wedding and a new babe in next half year.  Lady Brienne and Ser Jaime are to be married and they got a head start on children.”  Women liked weddings and babies. He thought the news would cheer her.

“Lady Brienne is just wonderful, what a blessing for her.”  Roslin pulled his hand into her lap and clasped it between her own.  “If it would please you, perhaps we could try for another baby of our own.”  Her cheeks were flushed, from nerves or desire or fear he didn't know.

“That would please me greatly,” Edmure murmured and leaned in to kiss her.  She yielded to his mouth, opening her own and soon he was being pushed back onto the bed, her hands in his hair and his arms pulling her body snug against his own.  He let her take the lead, and the way she panted as she sank onto him ensured that he didn’t last very long. He vowed that later when she was feeling better, he would give her pleasure in return.  He knew he could. He’d done it before on their wedding night, but for now, she climbed off him and curled into his arms for some much needed sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a refresher from the last Tyrion chapter - Viserion recognized his own name and when Rhaegal blew flames at him, it turned his scales back to his normal color momentarily, so Tyrion is trying to tell Sam this. And of course, Edmure effs it up, even though it was inadvertent and I love him :D


	32. The Twins (part two)

**The Twins (part two)**

 

When Jaime left Edmure in the yard, he’d had every intention of finding Brienne straight away and seeing how things had gone with the midwife, but he was waylaid by a variety of problems en route.  First, Ser Reginald, captain of the Mallister cavalry, stopped him in the great hall of the southern castle. Reginald gave him an appraising look, taking in his injuries from the scuffle he’d just had with Edmure.  Gods, just when he’d thought that Edmure had gotten his head on straight, he ended up rolling around in the dirt with him, fighting over girls like two boys in the streets of Flea Bottom.

“Tough day in the practice yard, Ser Jaime?” Ser Reginald asked.  He was a handsome man, thick and broad of shoulder with a mane of black hair that would make any woman jealous.  Reginald didn’t wait for him to respond, drawing closer to speak more privately. “My men are growing restless. They aren’t used to sitting about in a castle for weeks on end, and some of them are worried that the dragon is going to eat their mounts.  I am requesting assignment to scout the western shore. We need the coast just as much as we need the Trident.”

Jaime pressed his lips together as he began to mull over the request, but then stopped.  “Forgive me Ser Reginald, but Ser Edmure is your liege lord. Should you not be seeking his permission?”

“Ser Edmure deferred the decision to you.  He’s been a prisoner for years, Jaime. He is not ready to lead.”

Jaime sighed.  It was true, and he had to give Edmure credit for being so self-aware as to recognize it himself.  Edmure could handle Riverrun, but managing the entire Trident was beyond his current ability.

“Scout the coast.  I agree, we need to hold it.  Most of the Ironborn should be occupied elsewhere, but no doubt there are rogue ships and pirates that have come to take their place.”

Ser Reginald grinned.  “Thank you, Ser Jaime. I’ll muster my men and we will leave at dawn.”

Jaime nodded then moved on, making his way across the bridge between the castles.  He chuckled ruefully to himself when he passed by the matted down snow near the middle of the bridge, the place he’d found Roslin the night before.   _ No good deed goes unpunished.   _ It was becoming a running theme for his life.

He’d just entered the northern castle’s great hall when Podrick stopped him.  He looked pale and a bit green in the face, like he was about to wretch up his midday meal.

“What is it, Podrick?” Jaime asked, grabbing him by the upper arm and pulling him close.

“Have you seen Ser Bronn?” Podrick asked, a bit of panic in his voice.

“Yes, I was just with him in the practice yard.  What’s the matter?” Seeing the usually cheerful Pod looking this way was unsettling.

“Nothing, Ser Jaime.  I just heard that the Dragon Queen will be here soon.  With the northern refugees. And,” Podrick gulped, “Lady Sansa.”

Jaime tilted his head and looked Podrick in the eyes.  “And this is causing you some kind of distress?” Then it dawned on him--Podrick harbored feelings for Lady Sansa.  He chuckled and then slapped Pod on the shoulder. “You think  _ Bronn _ of all people is going to help you woo a highborn lady?”

“He offered to help me,” Pod replied, and his cheeks flushed red in embarrassment.

“Alright, well, good luck with that Ser Podrick,” Jaime replied.  He would have had more to say had he not been eager so get to Brienne.

Pod smiled his awkward, closed-mouth smile and then headed off to the training yard, leaving Jaime free to take the steps two at a time to get to his and Brienne’s room.  She’d started taking a nap after taking her midday meal, something Jaime absolutely loved to tease her about.

When he entered their room, he found Brienne sitting with another woman.  They were perched on the edge of the bed, busily handing garments back and forth between them.  Tiny garments. Brienne looked up at him, and she had the sweetest guilty expression on her face, as if she was embarrassed to be caught cooing over baby clothes.

“Jaime, this is Lady Rayna Frey,” Brienne said and they both stood up.  

“My lord,” Lady Rayna said and curtsied to him.  She held a tiny bonnet in her hand, and Jaime felt a lump form in his throat.  Gods willing, he was truly going to get to be a father, to be able to tie that little bonnet onto his daughter’s head.   _ Well, maybe not tie it. _

“Lady Rayna has generously offered to give us clothes.  There’s no time for knitting now, not that I knit anyway.”  Brienne smirked at him then turned to Rayna. “Thank you, my lady.  I will see that the clothes get back to you once my babe’s outgrown them.”

“Have a good evening,” Rayna replied and smiled sweetly as she left.

Brienne’s face changed the moment the door closed.  Jaime didn’t even get a chance to ask how it had gone with the midwife before Brienne was pointing a finger at him.

“I’m not stopping training,” she said sternly.  Where had this come from? It would be half a year or more before she was near delivery.

“I would never think of asking that of you, Brienne,” Jaime said.

“It’s just...I’m five moons in already.”  She looked as shocked about that as Jaime felt.

“What?  Gods, I must have put that babe in you the first night we were together!”  Jaime came to her and took her hand then looked down at her belly. She suddenly looked so obviously pregnant to him he wondered how he hadn’t noticed earlier.

“Don’t look so proud of yourself,” she replied with an arched brow.

“I did spill in you three times that night.”

“Two, and once again in the morning.”

“Either way, I am quite a man, you must admit.”  Jaime pulled her into his arms and kissed her cheek.

“I think I can feel it now--the baby I mean.  I thought it was my bowels rumbling, but its not.”

“That’s a good sign, isn’t it?  Did the midwife have anything else to say?”

“No, she told me everything seemed well, and that I should not worry until there was something to worry about.  She did ask me if I was a big babe when I was born.”

“Well, of course you were,” Jaime scoffed.  How could she not have been?

“I wasn’t, actually.  I was tiny, like a doll.  But hearty. My father told me everyone was surprised when I turned out to be such a  _ large _ woman.  Speaking of my father, I will have to tell my him soon.”

“Perhaps you could wait until after the wedding; I’d prefer he not have me killed before then.”

Brienne smiled against his neck then pulled back to look at him.  “I was just going to take my nap. Perhaps I can tempt you to stay.”  She ran her fingers into the waist of his pants and then lower. Gods, he was hers, every inch of his body and corner of his mind.  She must have noticed that his cock twitched because she laughed softly and gave him a little squeeze.

“Why thank you for the invitation, my lady.  I’d love to stay.”

 

Jaime slept fitfully later that night.  Even with Brienne beside him, he couldn’t calm his mind.  Knowing that Tyrion was going to see Cersei again filled him with dread, and if he was being honest with himself, a bit of guilt.  He should have gone as well, but Tyrion had forbade it in his previous letters. After all, it had been Tyrion and not Jaime that had “convinced” Cersei to send her armies north, even though that had ended up not working out.   _ Cersei doesn’t respect your opinion.   _ It had been written between the lines of the letter, and it was true, but that didn’t stop the horrible thoughts of Cersei flaying Tyrion alive from invading his mind.

Jaime woke sometime in the night.  The room was completely dark. The fire had been snuffed out and candles dampered.  Strange on it’s own, but he quickly realized Brienne wasn’t beside him. Then he saw two shadowy figures crouched by the north-facing window.  He was about to reach for his dagger when he realized it was Brienne and Bronn.

“What are you two doing?” Jaime asked.

“She’s here,” Bronn replied simply.  He was barely an outline of a shadow where he knelt at the window, and his voice was dark.

“Come here, Jaime, and be quiet,” Brienne said.  Jaime padded over to the window and crouched down.  Sure enough, Daenerys’ huge black dragon was sitting in a clearing just outside the northern gates.  The black beast was even bigger than it had been at the pit. It had only just landed and was busy tucking its wings in.  Then it lowered its thick neck down to the ground. Three figures, littles slips of shadow, descended from the beast’s back.  The poor guards on duty stood there watching, no doubt shaking in their boots. Daenerys was here in the dead of night. Why not wait until morning when she could make her grand, dramatic entrance as she had done at the dragon pit?

“Something’s wrong,” Brienne breathed, her blue eyes locked on the scene before them.  Daenerys was easy to recognize with her white hair. She looked like she couldn’t stand up, and the other two women with her where supporting her weight between them.

“That’s Lady Sansa,” Brienne said.  “And the other is the woman that was with her in the dragon pit.  Missandei.”

“Where is Jon Snow?” Jaime murmured.

“Aye, and where is her other dragon?” Bronn added.

Then, three old women slipped out of the castle and into the night, bustling over to Daenerys.  One took her hand and patted it and another stroked the side of her face gently. It was a bold move to touch the Dragon Queen.

“Those are the midwives who took care of Ser Bronn,” Brienne said.  “She must be ill.”

“Gods, she’s fucking crying,” Bronn muttered.  It was unsettling sight--the most powerful woman in the world struggling to stand with tears streaming down her face.

“The other dragon…” Jaime said.  “Did we lose another one? And Jon Snow?”  He’d been looking forward to the arrival of Jon Snow, if not actually speaking to him.  Jon Snow had proven himself a capable battle commander and leader, and gods knew they needed him now.  If Tyrion’s plan for the wildfire failed, they would be forced to meet the full strength of the army of the dead in the Neck, and it would potentially be their last stand.

“We weren’t meant to see this,” Brienne said as the midwives helped Daenerys inside.  Lady Sansa and Missandei followed behind, and then everything was quiet once again, as if it had all been a dream.  Except there was a giant dragon sitting outside the castle.

Drogon swung his huge head back and forth, as if he was agitated that his mother was sick.  Then his long, forked tongue flicked out of his mouth once, then again as he tasted the cold air.  Suddenly, he looked straight at their window and flicked his tongue out once more. He was smelling for them, Jaime realized, and a sense of dread overcame him.

Bronn must have realized it too, because he scrambled away from the window and pressed his back against the stone wall.  “Close the shutters. He knows I’m here.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Brienne chided, but she closed the shutters all the same.

“You don’t know,” Bronn said.  “I put a bolt through his shoulder.  He might look like some fucking wonder of the world to you, but to me he’s death on wings.”

Bronn was afraid, Jaime realized.  He’d never seen Bronn scared before, and to him that was the most disconcerting thing of all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to say a super special thanks to ITC for being so encouraging and for the swift beta. Your kind words are so much appreciated!
> 
> Wow, I am struggling to write lately. I'm so sorry this chapter took so long to get out. I know exactly where this story is going to go, but its just difficult lately to get the words out. Thanks so much for reading and commenting, hope you like this latest chapter!


	33. The Red Keep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. Just a refresher since its been awhile - Tyrion went to King's Landing to get wildfire from Cersei for his Riverlands plot of setting the Trident on fire when the walkers get there. He got captured and put in the Black Cells. Tyrion has not seen Cersei yet, but Qyburn implied that it was Jaime who refused Tyrion's deal of Jaime and Cersei marrying and taking the Rock with their baby (which is not true). Cersei "miscarried" awhile ago, though Qyburn determined that she was never really pregnant. And Qyburn is doing weird experiments on dwarves to ensure that if Cersei can get Tyrion to bang her, the child will not be a dwarf. It's real weird, I know, lol.

**The Red Keep**

 

Three days in the Black Cells.  Tyrion only knew because he’d shat three times in the chamber pot--his bowel movements were so regular that he could have kept time by them.  Well, he _was_ keeping time by them.  It had been worse the last time he’d been down here--moldy and wet.  But this time, there was fresh straw underfoot and a basket of hard bread and wine on a ledge near the door.  Perhaps his sweet sister was finally learning some hostessing skills. Yes, except for the fact that there were three days’ worth of shit piled up on the other side of his cell, he was really having a lovely time.

“I’d needed to get away,” Tyrion said extravagantly to absolutely no one.  “My job was getting so stressful, what with an army of dead men invading Westeros, armed with an undead dragon.  Throw in the potential for all-out civil war after--” No, he needed to watch his tongue. Surely, the walls had ears down here.  Perhaps that was what Cersei was trying to do, to break him down into a babbling mess. He felt his way over to the bread basket and reached down to rip another piece off the loaf, but his hand closed over the wine bottle instead.  It could be poisoned, he told himself. But why poison the wine when Cersei could just kill him outright? But he needed to keep his wits about him. Now was not the time to be drinking. Though he was really thirsty. It disturbed him that he needed to make a concentrated effort to let go of the bottle.

“Maybe tonight,” he said to himself.  Tonight, if he was still left in the dark, he would allow himself a drink.  For now, he would chew on the hard bread and stew over the problems at hand, of which there was certainly no shortage.

 

That evening, after no one had come to him, after he hadn’t even heard footsteps in the dungeon hall beyond his door, he pulled the cork from the bottle and drank.  It tasted strange to him, but not in a unpleasant way. Then he placed the flavor. He’d had it after the Battle of the Blackwater to help him sleep and recover from his injuries.  Dreamwine. But he couldn’t stop now. The release was too good. A sense of calm, of peace, of happiness washed over him. He knew it was false, that when he woke up with a hangover the intense feeling of shame would set in.  But he didn’t care, so he finished the whole bottle.

 

_He must have dozed off, because when he next opened his eyes he found that torches had been hung on the walls and a roaring fire blazed in the hearth.  Blue fire, all of it, and where had that hearth come from? Tyrion slid off the ledge and his feet hit the floor with an icy crunch, and when he looked down he saw frozen ground beneath his feet._

_“I’m dreaming,” he said aloud, and then a voice spoke to him from the shadowed corner of the cell._

_“Some shit dream.  We win the battle for King’s Landing for the queen and she throws us in a cell for it.”  It was Bronn, but he looked different. His right arm hung limp and useless at his side and icicles clung to his beard.  The tip of his nose was black with frostbite._

_“No, that’s not how it happened.  You were knighted for that battle,” Tyrion countered.  Leave it to him to argue with a dream._

_“Nah, that’s where you’re wrong.  That was a different battle, different queen.  You killed Cersei though, don’t you remember? And I slaughtered the Mountain for you, like I should have done back at your trial.  And then that dragon bitch threw us in here as thanks for our service.”_

_“What? No.”  Tyrion felt sick and he tried to walk to the open cell door but his feet couldn’t get traction.  Then it became hard to breathe._

_“Better than what Daenerys did to your brother though,” Bronn said and shivered.  Then he pointed out the window and Tyrion saw the Blackwater Rush below, littered with burning wagons, charred corpses, and mangled horses._

_And then he was there again, his heart in his throat as he walked among the bodies, searching frantically for a man in Lannister armor with a golden hand.  He never found him last time, he remembered, but this time Bronn was locked up and not there to save Jaime._

_“No, Jaime,” Tyrion moaned as he came to the edge of the river.  A lump of gold lay in a pile of ash. It vaguely retained the shape of a hand, and then Tyrion was retching so hard he could barely breathe.  “Gods, no,” he cried and fell to his hands and knees. His palm touched something beneath the charred grass, something long and hard, and Tyrion dug down and found a sword.  It was Jaime’s blade, and it still felt hot in Tyrion’s hands, like it had soaked up the dragonfire and stored it within the folded metal._

_“Give me my sword, little brother,” Jaime said.  Tyrion gasped and looked up as Jaime walked out of the Blackwater Rush.  He wore all black but his eyes burned red like coals. He’s going to kill me for what I did to Cersei, Tyrion thought, though he had no recollection of exactly how he’d killed her.  And the baby, oh gods, the baby._

_“I’m sorry,” Tyrion rasped, the sting of vomit still strong in his throat.  “I don’t know what happened, I can’t even remember how I killed her.”_

_Jaime smirked.  He smirked, and then he inspected the blade of his sword.  It was dripping with blood. A shiver ran down Tyrion’s spine, and then Jaime spoke._

_“That’s because you didn’t do it.  I did.”_

 

Tyrion woke up with tears in his eyes.  Cold sweat trickled down his back, and it took him a moment to realize where he was.

Then the door to his cell swung open and torchlight flooded the room.  Tyrion shielded his eyes, then squinted in an attempt to see who was there.  The lone shadow they cast across the stones was strange. It shifted forms like it was still part of Tyrion’s dream, at first it was a bat, then a butterfly, then a limbless figure with only a head.  Then Tyrion’s mind cleared. It was a man in a robe: Qyburn.

“Lord Tyrion, forgive me.  I meant to visit you some time ago, but my laboratory needed me.  Many fruitful experiments as of late.”

“That sounds quite ominous,” Tyrion replied.  Qyburn was baiting him, but he wouldn’t take it.  “But I don’t much care what you do in your spare time.  In fact, I don’t want to speak to you at all. I find you quite boring, actually.  I need to speak with Cersei.”

If Qyburn’s feelings were hurt, he made no indication of it.  Did the man even _have_ feelings?  Tyrion wasn’t sure.

“You have the sharp Lannister tongue, no doubt about that.  The Queen has been indisposed as of late, so she has been unable to receive you.”

 _Ah, of course._ “The baby,” Tyrion muttered. Cersei would be due to give birth soon, if Tyrion wasn’t mistaken.  He would be an uncle again. Perhaps this child would be like Myrcella and not Joffrey.  If Jaime had only taken the deal to wed Cersei and move to the Rock, this child could have lived a happy life.  Tyrion could have even demanded the child be fostered in King’s Landing. His niece had always laughed at his jokes.

Tyrion felt his throat clench with a sudden wave of emotion.  No, he needed to stop this line of thinking. It wouldn’t help anything to think of what could have been.

“Oh, your brother didn’t tell you then?  The queen suffered a miscarriage some months ago.”

“What?” Tyrion asked.  “I did not hear about this.”

“Yes, it was quite shocking.  The queen’s pregnancy had been going so well.  And then one morning shortly before Ser Jaime left the capitol, the queen began to bleed.”  Qyburn looked at Tyrion, waiting to see if he wanted to hear more.

“Go on,” Tyrion prodded.

“A child was delivered, whole and without malformation, though she was too small to survive.  She lived for nearly four hours. Her lungs were not ready to breathe, though she tried her hardest.  I did what I cloud but...” Qyburn paused and swallowed. “It was as if something forced the child from her body, violently expelling it from her uterus.”

“Was it tansy?” Tyrion asked.

“I believe so.  I evaluated the afterbirth and the vasculature showed signs of abruption.”

“But, who could get close enough to Cersei to do that?  She sees enemies everywhere.” It sounded like a Dornish plot to Tyrion at first.  But the Sand Snakes were gone, and gods only knew what had become of Ellaria Sand.

Qyburn didn’t answer right away.

“Where were her food tasters?  Her guards?” He was upset, even if Cersei hated him and he hated her, the innocent child could have perhaps loved him.  It was ridiculous, he knew that, but still, what if?

“The security around the queen was tighter than ever.  It was someone close to her. Someone she trusted.”

_No._

“I believe Ser Jaime acted impulsively.  Perhaps he thought he was sparing the child of a painful existence.”

“Get out!” Tyrion snarled.  He grabbed the empty wine bottle and hurled it at Qyburn.  It crashed into the cell wall next to his head and shattered with a bang.  “Get out and don’t come back unless you are here to take me to see Cersei. I’ll hear no more of your black tongue.”

Qyburn didn’t even flinch when the bottle crashed into the stone.  Now he stepped back out of the cell and nodded. “As you wish, Lord Tyrion.  I have informed the queen of your request, and she will speak with you soon. Until then, you are free to move about the keep as you wish.  Ser Ilyn Payne with escort you to your rooms. When you are in them, he will guard your door, and when you leave them he will accompany you wherever you go.”

Qyburn left and then the long, sunken form of Ser Ilyn appeared in the doorway.  He nodded to Tyrion then beckoned him to follow. Tyrion walked out of the cell and trailed behind Ser Ilyn until they were out of the dungeons.  He took a deep breath, relishing the moderately cleaner air. When he reached his rooms, he found a plate of dinner and a bottle of wine waiting for him.

“Thank you,” Tyrion said dumbly and closed the door on Ser Ilyn’s taciturn face.

He had no idea what was going on, but he knew he needed a bath and a change of clothes.  But first, a drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading. I am really sorry there was such a delay, but I think I have busted through the writer's block and will get the next chapter out in a more timely fashion :D


	34. The Red Keep (part two)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of the last chapter.
> 
> Thanks so much Ill_Tempered_Clavier, you are an amazing beta!

**The Red Keep (part two)**

 

Tyrion turned the lock on the door, leaving Ser Ilyn in the hall and then walked slowly around the room, running his fingers along the stones in search of any aberration that could signal a secret door.  The Red Keep was full of hidden passages, and he was certain that Cersei couldn’t know of all of them. After completing his search with no success, he even crawled under the bed to feel the floor. Nothing.

“Well, there goes that idea.”  Not that he had any notion of what he would _do_ if he managed to slip Ser Ilyn, but it would have been nice to know something that no one else did.  He felt like he knew nothing at the moment, and that more than anything made Tyrion feel powerless. He didn’t like it, and he strode over to the wine and poured himself a moderate amount, just something to sip on while he mulled his next move.  It was a red, bitter and biting on his tongue, and it warmed his chest as he swallowed.

He took a moment to survey his room.  It was finely appointed even if somewhat small.  There was a four-poster bed hung with burgundy drapes made of heavy velvet against one wall and an ornately carved and lacquered table and chairs set up near the window.  Each leg of the table was an intricately carved dragon, no doubt something left over from the Targaryen reign, something Robert hadn’t had destroyed.

Tyrion walked over to the lone window in the room and pushed it open.  A cool winter breeze came in from over the Blackwater far below. He leaned his head out and saw a sheer drop of over a hundred feet to the gardens below, and the castle wall was smooth as silk.  Not that he had any ambitions of going for a climb anyway. Fat snowflakes drifted down from the thin clouds above. It was winter here, no doubt about it, but it was a pleasant winter; unlike in the north where everything was frozen solid, here the pines moved in the breeze and some of the last of the autumn flowers yet clung to life, scattering the landscape with color.

He thought of Jon Snow then, and Tyrion wondered if he was still alive.  The last he’d seen of him, Jon was charging into battle, woefully outnumbered against an enemy that no one fully understood.  And Viserion. Tyrion’s heart ached at the thought of the dragon, and the memory of him desperately pulling at his reins as the Night King pulled him back wrenched at his very soul.  The dragons would always leave Tyrion awestruck, but Viserion had been his favorite. Even though Drogon dwarfed Viserion, the dragon’s curious nature and intelligence made him stand out.  Tyrion would never presume to know what it felt like to be separated from a child of his own, but he wondered if it was something like this. A haunting, empty ache. He wondered if this was how Cersei had felt when he’d sent Myrcella to Dorne.  If Tyrion had known what was to happen, he would never have done it.

Someone knocked at the door.

“Enter,” Tyrion said.  He had no reason to be cautious of anything at this point.  Cersei would simply kill him if she wanted to--there was no need for cloak and dagger intrigue.  Tyrion’s was completely and utterly in her hands, and while at first it was terrifying, he decided that he also enjoyed the freeing feeling of it.  There was absolutely no precaution he could take to keep himself safe. He only needed to watch his tongue to be sure he didn’t give anything away. He wasn’t sure what would enrage Cersei more: Jaime’s relationship with Lady Brienne or that if all went according to plan, the Golden Company would not be coming.  Euron’s fleet would arrive, hopefully within the fortnight. It would not bring soldiers but something even more valuable. And if Tyrion could get Cersei to play the part, it would be mutually beneficial. If he couldn’t, well, then all he could do was hope that she didn’t do something drastic.

Ser Ilyn leaned his long, haggard face in.  He saw that Tyrion wasn’t up to anything and then nodded and withdrew.  Two serving women entered carrying towels and soaps and other grooming supplies.  He saw a blade folded in soft leather and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up.   _It’s only to shave with,_ he told himself.

“M’lord,” the taller woman said and curtsied.  “May we draw you a bath?” She had long blonde hair and a fair face, and she could have been a great beauty if she’d been born to a high house, though she had a rather pronounced overbite.  The other woman had short hair but was just as blonde, and she wore it pulled into a short braid at the nape of her neck. She smiled shyly at him but didn’t say anything.

“Yes, thank you,” Tyrion replied and then the women set about to heating water and readying the tub.  He stood there watching for a bit. The smaller woman seemed like she hadn’t done this often, and her reedy arms could barely lift the kettle from the fire.  That was strange to Tyrion, but then she caught his eye and gave him a soft smile and he felt something stir in his groin, a feeling he hadn’t felt much lately.  Not since he’d stood outside Daenerys’ door while she and Jon... _No, that’s not true.  You simply love her as a man loves his queen, no more._  Besides, it was never a good idea to mix business with pleasure.  Though Jon seemed to have no problem with it.

They set up a silk screen to give him privacy, and he stripped off his clothes then sank into the tub.  The heat permeated into his stiff muscles and aching joints as he lowered himself in and he let out a groan.  The soap bubbles nearly overflowed from the tub and the scent of lemongrass and lavender filled his nose.

“M’lord,” the taller woman spoke.  She had a firm, confident tone to her voice.  “I hope the bath is to your liking. Raina will remain with you should you need anything at all.”

“Yes, thank you,” Tyrion replied and as he heard the taller serving woman leave the room, his chest tightened.  He could feel Raina’s presence on the other side of he curtain and his blood was churning through his veins. _Good gods, man, settle the fuck down._ He took a cloth and began to scrub himself roughly, trying to distract himself.

“M’lord,” Raina began.  It was the first time she’d spoken, and her voice was clear and melodic and so, so beautiful.  “Would you like me to wash your hair?”

 _Oh, fuck.  No._ “Yes,” he heard himself say.  His voice sounded foreign in his own ears.  “I mean--” he turned in the tub, about to protest, but Raina was already padding toward him.  She had a regal face and the short hair set off her elegant features nicely. She reminded him of someone he couldn’t quite put his finger on, but her eyes were so soft and open, eager to please that he put the thought aside and sank back into the tub.  Thank the gods the bubbles were thick enough to obscure his body beneath the surface of the water, because as her fingers worked into his hair his cock twitched. She worked up a lather and moved the pads of her fingers across his scalp in circular motions, and then one hand slid down to the back of his neck and rubbed the muscles at the base of his skull.  It was embarrassing how good it was to feel the touch of a woman again, even if it was only to wash his hair. He’d been damned near celibate since he’d become Queen’s Hand.

“Is this alright, m’lord?” she asked.

“Yes, thank you,” he replied through a tight throat, trying to control his voice.

“I could do your beard, too, if you please,” she replied.  Her hands were curling down into his sideburns.

“Um, of course.  Go ahead.” He’d never had someone wash his beard for him before, thought he’d never had quite as substantial a beard as he did now.  He looked like a lion, a terribly small one, but a lion nonetheless. As she soaped up his jaw, he felt the tension he held there fade away and he closed his eyes and rested his head on the back of the tub.

She finished and then had to lean over him to scoop up water to rinse out his beard, and he swore to the fucking Mother that her little breasts grazed his head.  Then she toweled off his hair and stepped back off the stool she’d been standing on.

“There are towels and fresh clothes on the bed, m’lord.  Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“I have clothes?” Tyrion asked, bewildered.  Where had those come from? His dirty traveling clothes were still in a pile next to the tub.  “As in, clothes that will fit me?”

“Yes, m’lord.  The seamstress has been hard at work preparing garments for you.”

“Well then, that’s quite shocking, but I don’t think I need anything more.  Thank you, Raina,” Tyrion replied.

“Shocking, m’lord?”  Her face was so innocent, elsewise he would have thought she was mocking him.

“Yes.  I mean...don’t you know who I am?”

“Of course, m’lord.  You’re the queen’s brother.”  There was a confusion in her voice, as if she couldn’t understand why he was surprised to have clothes, as if she could see no reason that the queen’s brother would not be treated with the utmost respect, as if she really _didn’t_ know who he was.

“Yes, I suppose I am,” Tyrion muttered.

Raina curtsied to him, and the way her body moved, the lines of her long neck, and the plumpness of her lips made Tyrion wonder if she was in the wrong profession.   _Gods, I’m a depraved old man.  Can I think of nothing else?_  Raina slipped from the room leaving Tyrion alone to dress and ready himself for the day, a day he hoped would be productive in securing the wildfire.  He needed to keep his eye on the prize; the wildfire was what he was here for--nothing else mattered. Not Cersei or Jaime or whatever had happened between them the night his brother had left the capital.  Not really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, the two maids who bring Tyrion his bath are people that have been mentioned/appeared in the story already. The updates have been much further between than I anticipated, so I'll say that the first "maid" is introduced in Chapter 29 and the second maid is mentioned in Chapter 30. Just shoot me a comment if you don't feel like rereading, and thank you so much for reading :D


	35. Qyburn's Laboratory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short interlude chapter, but I've got a few more chapters already written and I promise I am finishing this thing before Season 8. Thank you for sticking with this story through the unplanned hiatus!

Qyburn smiled gently to Patient F as the woman held her swaddled baby to her breast.  She’d done very well in the birthing bed; she came from robust stock and had already delivered four healthy babes of her own.  The odds had been in her favor, but there were unexpected things that could go wrong in childbirth that even the grand maesters themselves were at a loss to even explain, much less treat.

“How much longer do I have to stay here?” the woman asked in her charming Flea Bottom accent.  She was restless and impatient to return to her family. Her husband would no doubt agree to raise the babe as his own when he saw the bag of golden dragons she brought home, with the promise of more if they brought the child back for regular check-ups.  As far as Qyburn knew, what he had accomplished with this birth had never been done before in the entirety of the world. With the ability to weed out undesirable characteristics of parents to produce more perfect children, the possibilities were endless, both great and horrifying.  But it was not his job to police the world. He was simply a scientist.

“I think you will be ready for discharge this evening.  We will go over your discharge instructions at that time.  But do you remember the most important thing of all, my dear?”

She nodded earnestly, a lock of mousy brown hair falling into her face.  “Yes, m’lord. I won’t tell a soul about nothing, I swear it.”

“Very good, my dear.”

Just then, his assistant Felwyn’s voice called to him from the laboratory.  She must be back from Lord Tyrion’s bath. Qyburn left his patient and returned to the main area of the lab, spotless and organized as usual.  The condition Pycelle had left his Maester’s quarters in was appalling, and it had taken Qyburn weeks to salvage anything of use from it.

Ser Ilyn was with Felwyn, his face as long and skeletal as always, but he was intelligent, something that had been locked away ever since he’d lost his tongue.  But Qyburn was working on remedying that.

“Lord Tyrion is enjoying his bath with Raina,” Felwyn reported.  “He seems to be guarding his tongue, however beyond that there is no indication that he suspects anything.”

Qyburn nodded.  “How did he like Raina?”

Felwyn smiled softly.  “He seemed to like her quite a bit, but we pretended not to notice.”

“Excellent.  And Ser Ilyn, you are here for your lessons?”

Ser Ilyn nodded and took a lit candle to a desk and sat down.  The man’s face was a mask, devoid of emotion, so Qyburn couldn’t yet decide if he was enjoying this.  Qyburn supposed that after being the King’s Justice for decades, he knew how to hide his feelings, if he had any of them left.

“Today we will work on some proper nouns.”  Qyburn put two pieces of paper on the desk before Ser Ilyn, one with a list of names of familiar people: Cersei, Tyrion, Daenerys, etc.  The other was blank. Qyburn read the names aloud to Ser Ilyn, and then Ser Ilyn took a quill, dipped it in ink, and began to write. The letters were shaky and inelegant, but Qyburn could read them.  In the event that Tyrion disclosed an important piece of information to Ser Ilyn, assuming it was safe since the man couldn’t speak, Ser Ilyn would be able to report this information back to Qyburn by writing it out.  Qyburn had considered reattaching a tongue to the stump in Ilyn’s mouth, but Tyrion was clever and would no doubt check for that in time.

“So, the Queen is to meet with Lord Tyrion this evening?” Felwyn asked as she gazed into a bubbling beaker, checking on one of her many experiments she had running.

“He is.  And we will begin medicating him with the same protocol as Patient’s F’s child’s sire.  It should take effect immediately.” If the queen managed to get Lord Tyrion to inseminate her this evening, the child would be guaranteed to be of normal stature.

“This is truly groundbreaking,” Felwyn said, looking at him with wide eyes.  “The Citadel might reinstate you when they find out.”

Qyburn laughed softly and shook his head.  “Oh my dear child, I think not.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next, Tyrion and Cersei talk. It's just about done--only some polishing to do so it might come out pretty quickly. If you can't remember any of the plot points, I don't blame you one bit, it's been awhile since I updated, so ask away in the comments and I will answer as best I can :)


	36. The Queen's Solar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion and Cersei finally meet, and Tyrion must convince her to give him the wildfire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains some possibly upsetting subject matter and also some graphic description. Just a head's up, thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Also, I just updated yesterday too. Its just a little Qyburn interlude, but I wanted to mention it in case you didn't see it.
> 
> Thank you so much Ill Tempered Clavier for sticking with me in this and being such an amazing beta.

Once Raina had left Tyrion alone in the bath, he took a moment to gather his wits.  His cock was rock hard beneath the water and he felt lightheaded from the heat of the water.  No more thinking about random serving girls, he chastised himself, tonight he would meet with Cersei and the fate of Westeros hinged upon the outcome.  The army of the dead would sweep through the north before long and into the Neck. Daenerys’ remaining dragons needed to be protected at all costs because of what had happened to Viserion.  He hoped Tarly had received the raven scroll he’d sent from White Harbor about the possibility of saving Viserion. Viserion had heard his name and then looked to Tyrion for help, like a lost child.

He sighed and dipped his head under the water to get the last soup from his hair and beard, then surfaced and took a deep breath.  It was time to do his duty for the realm. And once again, as it had been at the dragon pit, it required him to meet with the person who hated him the most.  His dear sister.

After shaving, he put the clothes that had been made for him.  They fit perfectly. He smoothed his hands down the front of the deep burgundy doublet, his fingers catching a bit on the golden lion embroidered at the collar.  The smooth, high quality fabric of the pants moved pleasantly against his skin as he strode over to the mirror to took at himself.

“It’s like I never left,” he said.  His voice echoed off the bare stone walls and sounded hollow in his ears.  “Alright,” he said and looked himself square in the eye, “for Westeros.” Then he met Ser Ilyn in the hall, and the taciturn headsman escorted him to the Queen’s Solar.

 

Ten fully armed and armored Lannister soldiers stood at attention at the base of the curved staircase that lead up to the solar.  Two Queensguard blocked the first step. Tyrion couldn’t see their faces beneath their black helms, and he could not hazard a guess who would be under them.  Exactly which houses were still loyal to Cersei was unclear. Thanks to Randyll Tarly, any number of the houses of the Reach could still be. Neither was Gregor Clegane, he could tell that much.

And this was a lot of guards.  What did they think? That Tyrion would overpower them all and rush up the stairs?  Never in his life had his stunted legs allowed him to rush up stairs. Perhaps the loss of her child had pushed Cersei over the edge into pure paranoia--he he wouldn’t blame her for that.

The Queensguard nodded to him and escorted him up the flight of stairs.  Once they were out of sight, one man searched Tyrion for weapons and the other knocked on the solar door and announced him.

“Enter,” came Cersei’s voice, sounding half bothered and half uninterested.

Tyrion walked in and heard the doors close behind him.  No one had followed him. He scanned the room and didn’t see any guards posted inside either.  So she was going to play some kind of trust mind game with him then, was it? It took Tyrion a moment to even find Cersei in the room.  Dark red drapes covered the walls and windows, and a table and two chairs sat in the center of the room, but the chairs were empty. The only light came from two sconces on either side of the large window that overlooked the city and harbor below.  Cersei sat in a chair with her back to him, looking out the window.

She looked much smaller than he remembered, and she wore a plain black gown with long sleeves and no jewelry except for the crown upon her head.  Without turning to look at him, she spoke.

“How does it feel to be my favorite brother?”  Her voice was tinged with sarcasm, and Tyrion knew then that she’d been drinking already.  Good, he could use a drink too. He poured himself a glass of wine but didn’t approach her.   _ Remember, hold you tongue and get the wildfire. _

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Tyrion said plainly.  “I didn’t know...I’m sorry.”

“What do you want?” Cersei sighed and stood up from her chair.  Her black skirt rustled around her ankles as she walked over to him.  For everything that she’d been through, Tyrion had to admit it didn’t look like she’d aged a day since he’d left King’s Landing for Essos all those years ago.

“Winterfell has fallen.”

“And?”

“And the army of the dead is marching South at more rapid a pace than anyone could have predicted.  And I’m sure you’ve heard about the dragon they’ve taken.”

A little smirk played at the corners of Cersei’s mouth.  “So it’s true then. I didn’t think you would advise your queen to do something as foolish as fly the living’s only hope deep into enemy territory.”

Tyrion sighed.  “That wasn’t  _ my _ plan.  I advised against it actually.”

“And burning prisoners of war?  You advised against that too, no doubt?”

“I did,” Tyrion said.  He took a sip of wine. Nothing that happened matter; he needed to humor Cersei.

“What a wonderful feeling, to be so respected by your queen.”  She raised her glass in toast. “Now, let me guess, you need my wildfire to burn these monsters back into the depths of the seven hells from which they came.  Let’s just get right the the point. How much do you want?”

“All of it,” Tyrion said plainly.

Cersei scoffed, “You don’t even know how much I have so how can you possibly know you need all of it?”  She stalked over to sit at the window again, and Tyrion saw her wince ever so slightly as she sat down. She was trying to hide it; was she not yet fully recovered from the birth?

Tyrion joined her, sitting on a chair opposite her.  He put his glass down to heft himself up into it, then took a drink to wet his tongue.  “I just know that I need every barrel of wildfire left in Westeros to have the best chance of stopping them.”

“Hmm, fine, you can have it.  Better to burn them in the Neck than here.  I’m sure you’ve heard, but I have other resources to defend the capital.”

Tyrion shrugged, not trusting himself to speak of the Golden Company without giving away the fact that, if all was going according to plan, they were not coming.  A silence hung over them as they both looked out at the bay. The wine warmed Tyrion’s belly, but it was only Dornish Red with no hint of Dreamwine.

“How is Jaime?” Cersei asked, taking Tyrion by surprise.

“I haven’t seen him, but the last I heard he was well.  He’s played a large part in stabilizing the Riverlands in preparation for the army of the dead.”

“Hm, how noble of him.  Almost as noble as abandoning me.  You know Qyburn believes that Jaime poisoned me.  That he couldn’t bear the thought of leaving his unborn child behind so he took matters into his own hands.  He said Jaime’s mind has been unsound ever since he killed King Aerys, and that the battle against the dragon bitch reawakened all his old memories.  I told him to never say such a thing to me again, lest I have his tongue cut out or worse. Jaime will be back. He’s gotten such foolish plans for redemption in his head, but once the war against the dead is over, he will return to me.  He always does.”

“Cersei, I realize it’s not my place, but have you recovered from it all yet?  Poison can linger for years in the body. Is Qyburn taking steps to ensure your continued health?”

“Yes, yes, he’s taking care of it.”

Tyrion still wasn’t willing to believe Jaime was capable of doing such a thing, but Qyburn did have a point.  Jaime had been put through a great trauma with Aerys, and perhaps the Blackwater Rush had brought it all back front and center.  The Hound had crumbled in a similar fashion during Stannis’ siege.

“That’s quite the retinue of guards you have posted downstairs,” Tyrion said.  “I can only assume this increased protection is in case the poisoner tries a more direct method next time?”

Cersei mouth turned downward, and she visibly tightened up.  The first sign of any real emotion Tyrion had seen so far. “No, they are there to guard me against Qyburn’s monster.  You saw him in the pit; in his former life he was Ser Gregor Clegane. He’s running wild in the castle. He’s killed two soldiers and handmaid so far.  And he made an attempt to,” Cersei huffed and shook her head,” to do  _ something _ to me.  Tywin’s name was the only thing that stopped him.”

“Gods, that’s horrifying,” Tyrion said.  “He must be destroyed immediately.”

“That’s what I told Qyburn.  But Ser Gregor has vanished into the castle walls.  Qyburn says he is confined to a small area of the western wing, but I don’t believe it.  Hence the guards.”

_ Seven Hells.   _ It was a veritable castle of horrors here, and no matter what he thought about Cersei, he couldn’t believe that she had wanted  _ this.   _ Sitting alone in her solar with an empty womb and broken heart.   _ You don’t know that, _ he chastised himself.  But the way she asked about Jaime--there’d been disappointment in her voice, and anger to be sure, but she looked so sad too, face ashen with her hand on her belly.  She’d buried five children; he couldn’t begin to imagine what that felt like. If it felt anything like losing Myrcella, he knew he would have rather thrown himself off a cliff than live with five times that grief every day.

Tyrion’s head swam as he finished his second glass of wine, and he immediately poured a third.  Cersei held her own out for a refill as well. Then he caught sight of a tiny gown hanging on a rack in the corner of the room.  Red linen with a golden sash and tiny lions embroidered around the hem. He recognized it immediately and his throat tightened.

“I had Myrcella’s old dresses brought out for the new baby before I lost her.  I had a feeling it would be a girl, and I was right.”

Tyrion looked back at Cersei.  Tears welled up in her eyes but she kept her face taut and expressionless.  Her jaw muscles worked once then twice, as she willed the emotion away. Tyrion downed his whole glass and then had to turn away and swipe at the corners of his eyes.  Poor Myrcella. He should have gutted Ellaria Sand when he’d had the chance, Daenerys be damned. Gods, he’d been such a coward. The woman had murdered his niece.

“I should have fucking killed her,” Tyrion growled over the rim of his glass.  “I saw her at Dragonstone, the haughty murderous bitch. I should have. All I could do was speak my mind on it.  She was an ally of Daenerys.”

“You had strong words for her, then?” Cersei murmured and looked over at him.  Moonlight caught her profile and made her look like a predator of the night. Like a lioness.  “I had more than strong words for her. I avenged Myrcella.”

“Tell me she suffered,” Tyrion said, his heart beginning to race.  He wanted to hear that Ellaria had died screaming.

“She did.  She still does.”  Cersei leaned towards him and pressed her lips together, narrowed her eyes.  “When I’m feeling particularly despondent, I go pay her a visit, and it cheers me up for a time.”

“Ellaria is here?  In the keep? Where?”  Tyrion had assumed the woman was long dead.

“She’s in a cell.  Qyburn is keeping her alive, though she doesn’t talk or move about anymore.”

“Good.  You did what I could not.”

Cersei smiled and then they drank more wine until the decanter was empty and she had to call for more.  The tall girl with the overbite brought in a refill and with nothing more than a respectful yet sloppy curtsey she left again.

“Do you ever wonder if you were wrong?” Cersei asked, breaking the silence that had fallen on them both.

“About what?” Tyrion asked.  His fingertips and lips tingled pleasantly  from the wine, and his tongue was thick in his mouth.  He would start slurring his words soon, but he couldn’t be bothered to care at the moment.

“About which side you chose.  That you are trying put Daenerys Targaryen on the throne, a woman who doesn’t listen to her advisors, burns prisoners of war, and is a direct descendent of the Mad King.”

“I can only do my best,” Tyrion said.  That’s all he’d ever tried to do. But now, he had to wonder if he’d somehow made a huge mistake.  Daenerys had been the first person besides Jaime to ever truly believe in him. She’d respected his opinion and valued his intelligence enough to make him her Hand.  In the beginning, he’d been so optimistic. He’d thought that Daenerys would regain her rightful place on the Iron Throne and peace would be restored to Westeros. But that was before they’d actually  _ arrived _ in Westeros.  Since then, it seemed like she’d lost her faith in him.  She didn’t listen, she’d been vindictive and made rash decisions, and she’d demonstrated poor judgement in her relationship with Jon Snow.  How exactly? Well, _ somehow _ , because he knew he was looking at it objectively, it had nothing to do with any feelings he may have harbored toward Daenerys in the past.  It  _ didn’t. _

“I know you’ve thinking about something.  I’ve come to recognize that look on your face.  Do you know why you made whatever mistake it is that you are thinking about?”

“No,” Tyrion replied.

“It’s because you want to fuck her.”

“Absolutely not, that is ridiculous!” Tyrion protested, sloshing wine in his cup.

“Please, you want to fuck every beautiful woman.”

Tyrion scoffed.  “Preposterous. I don’t want to fuck  _ you.” _

Cersei quirked an arched eyebrow.  “But you think I’m beautiful?”

Tyrion couldn’t help but laugh.  “Cersei, you know you are beautiful.  You always have been.”

“Hm,” she said and leaned back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other beneath the skirt of her black dress.  “Sometimes I wonder if it even matters.”

 

Once both he and Cersei had drunk their fill, Tyrion excused himself and stumbled out of the solar and down the curved staircase.  He ran straight into the back of one of the Queensguard posted there, and then had him take a seat on the bottom step until Ser Ilyn could be summoned to escort him back to his room.

Ser Ilyn walked slowly behind him as Tyrion swayed his way through the corridors.  He caught him by the elbow once when Tyrion was about to stumble off a landing, and Ser Ilyn gave him a dark look, his brow furrowed in consternation.

“Don’t judge me, you don’t know what I’m trying to drink away.  In fact, you should try it sometime.”

Ser Ilyn’s expression returned returned to one of absolute apathy and they continued on their way.  When they reached the main hall, instead of heading across the large mosaic floor to the steps that would lead to his room, he turned to face the black iron door that lead to the dungeons.

“Take me to see Ellaria Sand,” Tyrion commanded.  He needed to see her with his own eyes, to see her suffering after everything she’d done.  Once they’d been well in their cups, Cersei had told Tyrion the specific circumstances of Myrcella’s death.  She’d died in Jaime’s arms, terrified as the poison took her life. It made him feel like retching just thinking about it.

Ser Ilyn led him down into the Black Cells.  The head gaoler nodded to Ser Ilyn and the gaoler asked him if he’d like to play cards later as a lesser guard patted Tyrion down.  Tyrion heard Ser Ilyn respond with his typical clacking sound, and then the heavy double doors opened and Tyrion followed the lesser guard down the hall with Ser Ilyn on his heels.

The stink of the cells was familiar to him; he’d spent enough time here himself, but nothing would ever compare to the rankness of the crate he traveled in to Essos.  He’d felt subhuman by the time he’d reached Pentos.

But when they finally reached Ellaria’s cell, he realized he only understood the tip of the iceberg of human suffering.  She lay flat on her back, head lolled to the side with a tube protruding from her mouth. Weeping sores covered her body and her skin looked like it was sloughing off.  Her face looked like it was made of wax and her black hair lay in a rat’s nest of tangles around skeletal face.

That wasn’t the worst of it, however.  On the other side of the cell lay a dessicated skeleton, dry patches of skin hanging from pale grey bones.  The clothes Tyrion recognized as that of a Sand Snake draped over it like a shroud--it was the remains of Tyene Sand, Ellaria’s daughter.

Tyrion’s breath quickened and his felt his eyes grow wide in his skull as he approached the bars of the cell.  He wanted to be horrified at what he saw. Logic told him that this was too far, the woman should be put out of her misery, justice had been served.

But all he felt was a surge of euphoria.  Pure happiness that Ellaria was living in an eternal hell.  She’d thought she could get away with murdering his niece, and innocent girl, but now she would lay in her own filth for as long as the gods allowed, knowing every moment that she, in fact, did not get away with it.  That the Lannisters always paid their debts.

 

Once Tyrion finally returned to his room, his was starting to feel slightly hungover and the eastern horizon was turning a faint grey.  The sun would rise in an hour or so. He stripped off his clothes and threw a clean silk nightshirt over his head and then took a long drink of water from the pitcher on the table.  Just as he was about to crawl into bed, there was a faint tapping at the door.

“Come in,” Tyrion said, his mind too sluggish to even take a guess at who it was.

Raina, the maid that had washed his hair for him earlier, entered.  She wore nothing but a shift, and he could see her taut nipples beneath the fabric.   _ Oh, fuck.   _ His swallowed audibly, unable to speak.

“I’m sorry for my appearance, m’lord, but I was sent to see if you needed anything.  You got back to your room quite late.”

“I can’t think of anything I need,” Tyrion whispered, but he knew his eyes were blown and it would be a miracle of the seven gods if Raina couldn’t see he was hard beneath his shift.

“Are you sure, m’lord?” Raina asked, and she padded towards him, her hips swaying in a very un-handmaidenly way, and she licked her full lips.  “I want you to be comfortable. Isn’t there something I could do to help you sleep?”

“If you have any suggestions, I’d be open to them,” Tyrion said, feeling the last of his resolve crumble away.  No, he’d gone without a woman’s touch for so long; he deserved a little comfort. Raina ran her hands into his hair and kissed him, her warm, soft body pressed against his.

As he lay back on the bed, he felt his body relax and Raina’s hands move to cup his balls.  The tiny part of his brain that was still functioning told him that something had been off tonight, something didn’t add up, but her mouth felt so good around his cock that he soon forgot about it.


	37. The Twins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick summary on what's happening at the Twins since it's been awhile:
> 
> Jaime, Bronn, and Brienne have just watched Daenerys arrive in the dead of night with no fan fare and appearing to be ill. When Drogon starts sniffing the air and looking at the castle, Bronn insists the dragon is hunting him.
> 
> Please enjoy!

When Brienne had first laid eyes on Daenerys Targaryen in the Dragon Pit, she’d been awestruck.  The Dragon Queen was as beautiful as she was terrifying, and when her huge black dragon had descended into the pit, it was all Brienne could do to stay on her feet.  She’d felt faint and simply overcome with amazement.

The Daenerys she’d just seen, however, was something else.  She looked sickly and small, and her dragon seemed not to heed her command to stay put because the moment his mistress disappeared into the castle, the beast started exploring, or allegedly hunting for Bronn if the sellsword’s paranoia was to be believed.

Brienne had humored him and closed the shutters, but then she turned to face where him.  He was backed against the far wall of the room.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Brienne said and put her hands on her hips.  Jaime and Bronn had bent the knee. Whatever happened on the shores of the Blackwater Rush was in the past.

“You don’t know,” Bronn said.  “I put a bolt through his shoulder.  He might look like some fucking wonder of the world to you, but to me he’s death on wings.”

Bronn’s face was pale and his eyes were on her, but they were focused on something far off as if he were looking straight through her.  Jaime had a worried expression on his face now too, as if seeing Bronn scared was enough to push Jaime over the edge into panic too.

“Daenerys cannot let her dragon harm you.  You and Jaime have both bent the knee. Anything that happened before that on the field of battle is put aside now.”

“She thinks of them as her children, and she as their mother.  We tried to kill one of her children, Brienne,” Jaime weighed in.  Godsdamn him, he was not helping.

“When she entered the battlefield on her dragon’s back, he became a combatant.  Daenerys chose to use her children as weapons of war. It’s all very clear,” Brienne said as she spread her hands out.  “I don’t understand what you are worried about. We have a far more important battle to fight, and Daenerys knows this.”

Jaime and Bronn looked at one another.  Jaime quirked a brow and Bronn worried at his bottom lip.  There was some silent communication going on between them, so Brienne waited expectantly for them to finish.

“Aye, you’re right about that.  The dragon became fair game for us once it started burning up our men.”  Bronn rose to his feet and went to the hearth. He squatted and began working on rebuilding the fire.  Jaime dragged a couple more chairs over and he proffered one to Brienne. She sat down and watched silently as the men worked together to get the fire roaring.  She was wide awake now, and it would take some time for the adrenaline to wear off.

“I just hope our little Dragon Queen intends on playing by the rules.  Her father certainly didn’t,” Jaime said as he sat down next to her. Bronn poured each of them a cup of ale and then joined them.

“Only time will tell us that,” Bronn said.

“Where do you suppose Jon Snow is?” Brienne asked.

“Dead, maybe,” Bronn replied.  “But I think we would have heard about that.”

“I think he’s at Winterfell,” Jaime said quietly.  “When a Stark leaves Winterfell, it never goes well for them.”

“And the other dragon?” Brienne asked.

“It was to take Tyrion to White Harbor and then rejoin the Daenerys and the northern refugees.  Perhaps it was shot down on its way back.” Jaime sipped his ale and leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees.  “I hope not. I don’t want to face two of them.”

Bronn whistled and the three of them grew quiet, each in their own thoughts.  Brienne leaned over and rubbed Jaime’s back.

“I’m going to bed.  Don’t stay up too late.  We will all have to present ourselves to Daenerys tomorrow.”

“Yes, mum,” Bronn said with a smirk, his eyes lighting up for the first time since he’d seen the dragon.

“And seeing as you are both convinced this will be our last night alive, perhaps we should make good on that bet.”  Brienne leveled her eyes at the two men, keeping her expression unreadable. It became difficult to do as both of them recalled what she meant, the promise of a threesome if Bronn won the spar.

Bronn’s mouth dropped open and he looked at Jaime nervously, and Jaime gasped in understanding which in turn made him inhale a mouthful of ale and start choking.  Bronn went over to him and slapped him on the back until he could take a deep breath. Then her soon-to-be husband whirled around in his chair and narrowed his eyes at her.

“You seem to think yourself quite the japer.  All I have to say is be careful what you wish for, Lady Brienne,” Jaime rumbled from deep in his throat.  For just a moment in time, Brienne wondered what  _ exactly _ that would be like.  Bronn was a handsome man, and he clearly loved Jaime.  She pressed her lips together, and then the moment passed when Bronn spoke.

“Oh leave the poor woman alone, Jaime.  It’s bad enough you put a babe in her belly.  I feel sorry for you, m’lady, truly. You’re going to have to deal with this twat every day for the rest of your life.” 

Jaime just shrugged and crossed on leg over the other was he repositioned himself in his chair.  He took a sip of his ale and then a low chuckle escaped his throat. He shook his head, eyes gleaming, and Brienne wondered if he was letting himself imagine it too, just for a moment.

“Goodnight, gentlemen,” Brienne said and crawled into the bed on the far side of the room.  Even after all their talk of fire and dragons and the dead, Brienne felt safe as she curled up under the furs, her hand on her belly as the baby kicked furiously.  The child probably believed it to be morning already, she thought with a smile. She was getting good at telling where the feet were-- jammed low into her right hip at the moment.  She gave them a push and the baby kicked back. Sassy little thing. And it seemed to never stop moving. The midwives had told her this was a good thing, though it made it difficult to get comfortable sometimes.  If Jaime had truly gotten her with child back when they first laid together, which seemed likely since he’d been pulling out ever since those first few times, then she would be due to give birth in three or four months.  She felt foolish for not realizing she was pregnant, but in her defense, she’d been rather distracted what with taking her first castle. Before long, she drifted off to sleep.

 

Brienne found herself tossing and turning, somewhere between sleep and waking, and she was  _ hot _ .  So hot that her nightshirt clung to her sweat soaked skin.  The blankets were balled up at her feet and still she kicked at them, trying to free herself of the oppressive heat.  Finally, she forced her eyes open and pushed herself upright in the bed. Her hair stuck to her forehead, and she was expecting to see a roaring fire in the hearth, but it had dwindled back down to only the faint red glow of coals.   _ Then why the bloody hells am I so hot? _

She swung her legs out of bed and when her feet hit the floor, the very stones themselves were warm beneath them.  Jaime and Bronn were slumped in their respective chairs before the heart, heads rolled back, asleep. She could not tell if it was night or day, and the heat in the room was so overwhelming that she began to feel lightheaded.  She needed to open the shutters. The stones of the wall were hot beneath her hand where she placed it to brace herself. Something wasn’t right but her brain wasn’t working, and all she could think about was getting fresh, cool air into her lungs.  She reached the shutters and pulled them toward her, flinging them open.

Blackness greeted her.  Complete blackness. There was no sky, no river, no trees.  Just a strange, pebbled wall. She reached out and touched it, and it was hot to the touch, like a child with a fever, and then the surface moved and shifted before her until a huge, orange eye appeared.  It was Drogon, and he’d been leaning against the wall all night, waiting for his chance. It was why the room was so hot. The pupil dilated when it saw her, and she realized she was face to face with a dragon, and she screamed.

The dragon pulled its head back and let out a bone-rattling roar.  It shook her very heart in her chest, and she gasped for air as she stumbled back.  Jaime and Bronn were on their feet, and when Drogon saw Bronn he hissed at him and flicked out his tongue.

“Run!” Bronn yelled, but before any of them could get away, Drogon reared his head back and opened his mouth.  It was as if she were looking down into a furnace from one of the seven hells, and a ball of fire began to form in the black, smoking gullet that was Drogon’s throat.  He was going to kill them, she realized, and she felt foolish for believing it could end any other way now.

“Get down,” Bronn snarled and yanked her by the arm.  She stumbled and Jaime caught her around the waist, and she looked back just in time to see Bronn grab the dagger from his back with his left hand and fling it at Drogon.  Time seemed to stop as she watched the blade rotate end over end. It would bounce off the tough, pebbled skin, no doubt, or simply clank off a tooth. But no, it kept going until it sank deep into one of Drogon’s eyes.  Immediately, the dragon let out a cry, a scream that sounded like a dog who’d just been kicked, and he snapped his jaws closed and lumbered away from the window. He bellowed and roared as he clawed at his face, trying to dislodge the dagger.  Then he resorted to scraping his face along the bank of the river. But it was no use, the dagger had penetrated deep into the amber globe of his eye.

Jaime ran forward and barred the window shut then turned around to face them.  Bronn lay on the floor, propped up on one elbow, in too much shock to even speak.

“You couldn’t do that again if you tried,” Jaime gasped.  “How the fuck did you do that? With your left hand?” Jaime was in awe.  “He was going to kill us.”

“I’m fucked,” Bronn breathed.  “I just stabbed her fucking dragon in the eye.  I  _ stabbed _ her dragon.  I’m fucked,” he repeated.

“No you’re not,” Brienne said and stood up.  She’d had just about enough of Daenerys Targaryen and her dragon.  The Queen needed to bring her beast to heel. Brienne’s hands were still shaking from the adrenalin as she went over to Bronn and helped him to his feet.  “She can’t kill us all. We will simply refuse to tell her who threw the dagger.”

“I hate to disagree with this plan, but she probably  _ will _ kill us all,” Bronn replied.

“No, she can’t,” Jaime said in agreement with Brienne.  “If she kills us, she will lose the support of everyone in this castle and beyond.  The Westerlands, the Stormlands, hells, even Edmure Tully would not see us burned for simply protecting ourselves.”

“I can’t let you both take that risk,” Bronn protested, but his eyes were soft, as if he couldn’t quite believe that Brienne and Jaime cared enough to put their necks on the proverbial block for him.

“It’s not your choice,” Brienne replied.  She leveled her eyes on Bronn, holding his gaze until he finally gave a little nod of concession.  “Now, let me dress. I’m sure someone will be banging down our door momentarily.”


End file.
